LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



1=<5 \ O 5".-i- 
i|ap ®ijji^rjg|i !fij. 

Shelf_-_B-4:aTv 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Three Friends' Fancies. 



^'J 2/\'Vi^ ^ c 



V-'. 



{!.V SA 



C 




yC^ 



/^ ' '- /<^ /^^ 



X7 



< 



" When each by turn was guide to each. 

And Fancy light from Fancy caught, \ 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 
Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech." 

Tennyson. 




-7^/ /^ X ' 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1880. 



t 






Copyright, 1880, by J. B. Lippincott & Co. 



CONTENTS. 



Verses by E. W. B. : 

On Latmos . 

Despair 

The Death of Dickens 

The Modern Knight . 

The Rain . 

Easter .... 

The Valkyria 

Moving the World 

Harvest 

These Starry Hours . 

Christmas Bells . 

Savannah 

On Returning a Mended Fan 

The Origin of Maize . 

Nature versus Cremation 

A Child's Cry . 

Fragment 

Amabel 

Sonnet to Poe 

Lines on a Grave-Mound 

Cry of the Commune . 

Good-Friday 

Winter Song for the Hearth 

Winged Love 

Bien-Gantee 

The End of a Dynasty 

If thy Heart fail Thee, climb not at all 



PAGE 

9 

12 
13 
15 
18 
18 
20 
22 
24 

25 
27 
29 
31 
32 

35 
35 
36 
36 
38 
39 
40 
42 
43 
45 
46 

47 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Night and Sleep ......... 50 

Calm ........... 51 

De Profundis . . . . . . . . -53 

Beyond .......... 54 

The Palace of Tears 55 

The Confederate Dead ....... 59 

An Angel Unawares . . . . . . , .61 

The Heart's Desire ........ 62 

Verses by J. C. : 

Scotland 67 

A Web of Tatting 71 

After the Epidemic . . . . , . . • 74 

Falling Leaves ....... . . 76 

Margaret on the Shore 77 

Love and Grief 82 

"Thou shalt Call and I will Answer Thee" . , . gi 

A Tribute • • • 93 

Shaped to Music ......... 96 

A Sunday-Child ......... 96 

What the Sprite sang to the Magnolia .... 98 

The Daisy .......... 99 

After Death .......... 99 

The Gift of Grief ........ 100 

Immortal .......... loi 

Genius , 103 

Verses by E. A. G. C. : 



To . . . . 

Twilight Visitings 

At Sunset 

Holly 

Shadows 

Death 

" Pluie des Perles" . . . 
Coming of the May . 
The Death of a Noble Cause 
An Invocation .... 
The Old and the New . 
Sighing for Leaves 









109 
no 
III 

113 
114 

"5 

116 
117 
119 
120 
122 
123 
125 



CONTENTS. 5 

PAGE 

Song 127 

Good-Night 128 

"At the Gate of the Temple which is called Beautiful" . 130 

A Lost Friend 132 

A Song in Spring 134 

Autumn Music 135 

Fragment .......... 135 

Lament of Antony 136 



VERSES BY E. W. B. 



" Pansy — that's for thought," 



ON LATMOS. 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

With hunting nymphs, a starry train, 
I lead the chase o'er heaven's plain; 
Through many a lair of fog and rain, 
Through clear-washed azure space again, 
With beamy darts, each night's surprise, 
Flung down in clear lakes' fringed eyes, — 
Earth's Argus watch that glass each hour, 
Whose dark our silver quivers shower. 

The while we chase through clear, cold heights, 

Far, far above earth's twinkling lights. 

Now fast dissolved in gathering darks, — 

Out, out ! ye puny, smoke-hued sparks ! 

Our laughter of immortal glee 

Rewards your pigmy mockery ! 

Through cloud, through snow-drift, and white fire, 

We hunt through heaven, nor pause, nor tire. 

Hark ! from beneath a flute's sweet strain 

Sets tiptoe all my huntress train ! 

My silver-sandalled feet move slow 

To hear its flow, — now loud, now low. 

Now piercing sweet, now cadenced clear, 

And fine as fay voice to the ear. 

Till my divining goddess eyes 

The air's stirred wake trace down the skies, 

2 9 



lo ON L ATM OS. 

To see on Latmos' barren peak 
The music's soul ! Fair shepherd, speak ! 
For thy flute's sake, and for a face 
Pale-lit with strange, appealing grace; 
I'll hear, though scarce such open look 
This haughty virgin heart can brook ! 
Thy name seems known to me ; 'tis one 
A flute might breathe, — Endymion ! 

The music mute? Nay, forward, chase! 
This mood's not mine. A shepherd's face, 
With mortal sorrow written there 
In mortal guise, however fair. 
Can ne'er have stayed me. 'Twas the tune 
So held my silver, tripping shoon 
Accordant, spell-bound. In this hush 
Is space for breath ; then on we rush ! 

What binds my feet and chains my eyes 
Unwilling thus? Whose daring tries 
A strength immortal, born above ; 
Shall Dian stoop to human love? 
Can this cold breast — Caucasus' snow — 
With aught of mortal-melting glow? 
On, on ! what holds me? Like a wind. 
Sweep — sweep me hence, my virgins kind. 

'Tis vain. Those eyes, so pleading bright, 

Compel my own, as light the light. 

One name storms fast my soul upon, — 

Endymio7i, Endy7nioii I — 

A snow-bright statue, bow half-drawn 

To slay, I stand, wrapt in the dawn 

Of some new sun, whose fire thaws 

My heart and purpose in their pause. 



ON LATMOS. 

Is love — of human suffering born, — 
That love — my haughty spirit's scorn — 
So all-victorious, that it tries 
To scare me through a shepherd's eyes? 
What ! is't so mighty? Does it gain 
Its potency through mortal pain ? 
Hence, hindering fancies ! Feet, begone ! 
Pursue me not, Endymion ! 

My strength dissolves like morning dew ; 
His eyes' magnetic lightnings through 
The night draw fast. From rift to rift 
Of clouds, a gleaming shape, I drift. 
To touch bald Latmos' peak upon. 
Beside thee, O Endymion ! 
I yield me to thy grief's demand ; 
I feel the clasp of mortal hand. 

I know the thrill of heart to heart, 

No more as world and world apart 

In orbits separate to move. 

For heaven and earth are fused by love. 

Has Dian stooped, by this one kiss, 

To forfeit all her goddess bliss? 

Oh, wind, that sighs this hill upon, — 

Endymion, Endymion ! 

Make answer : '' Never so before ; 

Immortal now for evermore !" 



II 



12 DESPAIR. 



DESPAIR. 

Darkest of demons, infesting the world, 
Falsest of fiends in the red ruin hurled 
Down the pit of the fallen ! Detestable shade. 
Traitor forever to mortals betrayed, 

Back to thy lair ; 

Hence, grim Despair ! 

Shall the God-fearing among us fear thee ? 
Back to thy night in the fathomless sea 
Of death and destruction ! Obtrude not thy face, 
Pallid with fear and deep-lined with disgrace ; 

Haunt not the air, 

Ghastly Despair ! 

Is evil without, drawn by evil within ? 
Spirit of grace, who canst wash away sin, 
Snow-water bring us, tears contrite to cleanse ; 
Drive the unclean to his low-lurking fens. 

Pure love and prayer. 

Banish Despair ! 

Shall we who trust Good, her fair altars now level, 
Unbelievers in Christ, to believe in a devil ? 
By each flower dew-eyed that looks out of the sod,- 
The tender and gracious handwriting of God ; 

Type of His care ; 

Flout we, Despair ! 



THE DEATH OF DICKENS. 



13 



By each bird that soars to the heights of the blue, 
Whose far-streaming chant like an arrow darts through 
The quick of the soul with its keen thrill of praise ; 
By each ray of sunshine inweaving our days, 

Cry we, "Beware ! 

Yield, O Despair!" 



THE DEATH OF DICKENS. 

The lightning flashed beneath the wave. 

Across the melancholy main, 
(E'er moaning o'er earth's treasure-grave 

A universal dirge of pain) ; 
The lightning flashed ! and shook the hand 

Of him who caught its message dread, 
To hurl it o'er a shrinking land, — 

'' A star is set ; a prince is dead !" 

A star whose glow the palace knew 

And cottage loved ; a kindly light. 
Whose beam, Ithuriel's spear, smote through 

Those ill-twinned giants. Wrong and Might. 
A prince 'mid princes; one whose sway 

No single land or nation owned. 
For broad his realms, as those of day 

On heights of noontide glory throned. 

And still, where'er the current flows. 
From lowly vale or mountain spring, 

E'er mingling, widening, as it goes 
To a main, whose mystic waters sing 
2* 



14 



THE DEATH OF DICKENS. 

Of mind eternal ; where'er leaps 

The quick pulse of humanity, 
And, warmed by every life-throb, keeps 

The heart its native impulse free \ 

Where'er the starry spark of soul 

Mysterious beautifies the eye. 
And thrills to feel the weird control 

Of kindred fire,— his kingdoms lie. 
Behold the mocking cynic doff 

His sneering wont and gravely bend, — 
And, see! the jester's mask is off! 

Humanity has lost a friend. 

^l* ^^ "^ si* ^t? "^ 

<)i ^f^ *7* "^ "^ -T* 

*'The old, old fashion !" Oh, thou lip 

Still eloquent, though calm comprest 
In marble sleep 1 Our poor tongues trip 

And stammer o'er thy place of rest, 
Till thine own words unbidden come, 

Like flowers that wreathe this pavement cold, 
And steal their perfume through the hum 

Of city noise about us rolled. 

The while a vision fair and blest 

We seem to see : hand linked in hand. 
And pure eyes meeting as in quest 

Of sympathy, thy children stand ; 
And, hark ! Nell speaks to little Paul, — 

Ah ! sweet the cherub words exprest, 
As soft the child-like accents fall, — 

** The old, old fashion is the best !" 

"The old, old fashion is the best !" 
And down the Abbey-shadows dim, 



THE MODERN KNIGHT. ^c 

As if by angel-choirs confest, 

The words float grandly, like a hymn, 

*' Forever and forever blest." 
The cherub-lips repeat again, 

''The old, old fashion is the best," 
And through our tears we breathe Amen. 



THE MODERN KNIGHT. 

Whose is no more the stately tread, 

The gravely courteous mien, 
The linked mail, and helmed head, 

The blade of Syrian sheen ! 
His walks, the common ways of men, 

The field, or haunt of trade ; 
His arms, the ledger and the pen. 

The ploughshare and the spade. 

Whose splendor is no more the sun 

Of courts, — the proud array 
In spurs of knighthood, wildly won 

Through some fierce-fought affray; 
His dress, as sober to the glance 

As autumn's brown leaf, hies 
Unnoticed on each breeze of chance, 

Or wind of enterprise. 

Who coolly scans his fellow-man 

With philosophic eye. 
Converses calmly, — conscious when 

To smile and when to sigh ; 



1 6 THE MODERN KNIGHT. 

Nor tilts at wind-mills ! — saves his breath 
To name them with a sneer ; 

Macgregor on his native heath 
From him has naught to fear. 

Who rides no more through forest dim 

With half-drawn sword, and prayer 
Upon his lip, or holy hymn 

To ward off evil there : 
But steps with dainty footfall down 

The church's velvet aisle, 
And sees her emblems, cross and crown, 

With self-sufficient smile. 

Whose chivalry to all the weak 

Is proofless ; — who can cheat 
The widow poor and orphan meek, 

And all their woes complete ; 
Whose highest aim is self, — whose laugh 

Greets wrong, — who frowns at right, — 
Who bows before the Golden Calf, — 

Is this the modern knight? 

Nay ! He who loves not his own age, 
With all its faults of kind, 

May rank as critic, or as sage, 
But leaves all love behind ; 

For human hearts since Adam beat 
With pulses still the same ; 

And change — which Time must ever meet- 
Is half — a change of name. 

And loyal truth, pure knighthood's best, 
A bright-twinned star, still lies 

(Best aid to faith on earth, confest) 
Revealed in human eyes ; 



THE MODERN KNTGHT. 

What though the Age's mockery lurk 

Upon the lip, — words can 
But challenge smiles when noble work 

Proclaims the cynic — man ! 

And ancient chivalry lives yet ! 

Deny it ye who may, 
Your cheeks with passion tears still wet, 

In memory of a day 
When thrilled his loud alarum, Mars, 

And glowed each latent spark. 
Until a martyr's cross of stars 

O'er blazed his 'scutcheon dark. 

Ay, evil is this weary world, 

And black her dreary trace 
(The serpent shade behind her curled 

As on she moves through space). 
But good is stronger yet than ill ; 

Against the dark strives light, 
And rides life's tossing billows still. 

Heaven's winged triumphant knight. 

And though no accolade of sword 

Feels now on shoulder bowed, 
The man whose spirit, as whose word, 

To noble deeds is vowed, — 
Eyes, piercing yet the dusty haze 

Of this swift age, flash bright 
Denial of ''degenerate days," — 

To see the modern knight. 



17 



THE RAIN— EASTER. 



THE RAIN. 

It comes down drearil}^ The leaden clouds 

Are freighted like full hearts with sorrow. Weep ! 
Ay, weep, and weep, and weep ! Earth's flocking 
crowds, 

Her slopes descending to death's final sleep. 
Are with you in your grief. Their pulses throb 

In melancholy time to the monotone 
Of your low voices. Winds that gasp and sob 

In gusty passion, soon on wet wings flown, 
Deep answering chords of wailing seem to wake 

In our immortal-longing, mortal breasts. All woe 
How man responds to, from his fallen estate ! 

And yet the soul, divinely moved, may break 
Its mists, and see a sunborn rainbow glow, 

And hear Faith cry, " No woe is desperate !" 



EASTER. 



The Lord is risen ! 
Break forth exultant earth in singing ! 
The joyful news, in anthems ringing 
From mountain-top o'er ocean billow. 
Through forest aisle and whispering willow. 
That bends to kiss the churchyard pillow. 
Where slumber '* broken" is decreed : 

For Christ the Lord is risen ! 
Risen indeed ! 



EASTER. 

The Lord is risen ! 
The grave hath given up its sleeper, 
Nor sealing rock, nor Roman keeper 
Can close again the bursten portal. 
When Life proclaims itself immortal. 
Pale watching Mary, lonely weeper, 
No more thy love with sorrow feed : 

For Christ the Lord is risen ! 
Risen indeed ! 

The Lord is risen ! 
Pour out, fair flower, your fragrance sweetest, 
Rise up, bright bird, on wing the fleetest, 
And sing to heaven's four winds the story. 
Till earth be filled with praise and glory. 
Time now distils from pinions hoary 
A cordial for all hearts that bleed : 

For Christ the Lord is risen ! 
Risen indeed ! 

The Lord is risen ! 
Oh, powers of darkness in high places. 
Who lean your evil, watchful faces 
O'er man's sad race with thoughts vainglorious,- 
Shrink back ! There sounds a step victorious, 
Whose way no Calvary retraces ! 
Divine it comes, from bondage freed ; 
Captivity, to captive lead — 

For Christ the Lord is risen ! 
Risen indeed ! 

The Lord is risen ! 
To break our earthly, sin -forged fetters. 
To write in ever-shining letters 



19 



20 THE VALKYR I A. 

On marble, stained with years of weeping, 
This truth (our hearts its witness keeping. 
With awful joy and pulses leaping). 
Angelic words of mortal creed, — 
Lo ! Christ the Lord is risen ! 
Risen indeed ! 



THE VALKYRIA. 

The moon is full \ her silver shield 

Hangs o'er the silver snow, 
Above in a glittering azure field. 

With the glittering earth below. 
For the Frost King's hordes in diamond mail, 

Thick — bristling, set the plain 
Against yon host, like glorious hail, 

High heaven's unnumbered train. 

Nature in frozen fires becalmed, 

A wondrous statue pale ; 
In cerements of ice embalmed, — 

Dread Freyr ! cased in mail, 
Death-stark and mute, — yet hark ! a wind 

Seems rising. Lo ! the chained 
And dumb-mouthed forests utterance find : 

'* Valkyria ! They come !" 

And up the north, from Odin's halls, 

The warrior virgins ride. 
Burst forth from gray Valhalla's walls 

An ever-rising tide. 



THE VALKYR J A. 21 

Their banners red, their wild, loosed hair, 

Like spun gold, streaming back^ 
Shower rose and amber through the air, 

Athwart their purple track. 

White wastes are stained, as if all heaven 

One grand cathedral vast, 
Lit suddenly, illumed the even 

Through windows gorgeous glassed ; 
But far too weird and wild such light 

For calm cathedral's glow. 
Blue burnished blades, red lances bright, 

Seem clashing o'er the snow. 

What seek those war-clad maids who stream, 

Like fierce-flashed meteors o'er 
The fields of morn and starry gleam 

From yon pale northern shore ? 
They search the skies to seize the souls 

Of braves in battle slain. 
Great Odin's nod their horde controls : 

They harvest for his train. 

They gather warriors true and tried 

In many an earthly fight. 
For Valhal's courts, the martial pride 

There ranked in phalanx bright. 
Awaiting that last strife, when risen, — 

Once more, alas ! unbound, — 
The evil Titans burst their prison 

With dread, volcanic sound. 

Oh, wondrous band of Amazons, 
Whose glittering spears search high, 
3 



22 MOVING THE WORLD. 

Like sudden morn-enkindled suns, 

The labyrinthine sky, 
All hail ! Now streams back brighter far 

Than all your ranks enroll. 
Your treasure-trove, that deathless star, 

A freed, heroic soul ! 

Now all your flashing braveries quail. 

Your lances backward blown. 
To set a lurid halo pale 

Round northern Odin's throne. 
But still the boreal billows sing 

Your mystic triumphs' rune, 
Valkyria ! Vast Valhalla's ring ! 

And war's red harvest moon ! 



MOVING THE WORLD. 

Ah, man yet thirsts for power, — the power 

To charm the ear with song. 
To fire the eye with beauty's blaze. 

Still dreaming Art is long ; 
To bear the soul on floating wing 
Down that majestic stream, whose spring 
Was Helicon, whose seething whirled 
The fancies of an elder world. 

Alas ! though Music soothe the ear, 

And fall on grief like balm, 
Though high-wrought Painting thrill and fill 

The soul with nature's calm, 



MOVING THE WORLD. 

And Poesy, with mission high, 
Dispersing lightnings of the sky, 
An Ariel, ride the storm-clouds curled. 
All strive in vain to move the world, — 

The careless world ! it rushes by 

With blunted ear and eye. 
Nor stays to hear the charmer's song. 

Nor pauses to descry 
The beauty limned by brush or pen ; 
Art sadly walks the haunts of men. 
Her wide and starry pinions furled. 
Despairing of a sordid world. 

A greater one there needs must be 

To do what Art's great Three 
Attempting, fail. Lo ! with clear eye. 

Fixed on th' effulgent sky, 
Stands Faith, — a mighty angel, strong 
To overcome, to whom belong 
Fair glimpses through heaven's portals pearled ; 
Yet even she moves not the world. 

With joy-lit look inspiring, leans 

Upon her anchor, Hope, — 
Is hers the strength secure, serene. 

With this vain earth's to cope 
And conquer? Hers the royal stand, 
Proud mistress of the sea and land. 
Proclaiming to each star unfurled 
Her power to move a stubborn world ? 

Not so, oh, heavenly comforter. 
The lever is not thine. 



23 



24 



HARVEST. 

A mightier cometh, bathed in light, 

Like sacramental wine. 
He stoops to heal ; He bends to bless, 
The powers of darkness all confess 
Him Lord, — from out His pathway hurled, 
And Love triumphant rules the world. 



HARVEST. 



'Tis the rare, ripe time o'er the year 

The land is heavily fruited, 
And the chirped delight of the birds we hear 

On every zephyr bruited. 

Frail flowers have shrunk from the kiss 

Of the sun, too ardent grown. 
On the bed where the red rose breathed its bliss, 

The dahlia stands alone. 

By the fence the hollyhocks nod ; 

And a straggling rustic file. 
With faces turned to their dazzling god, 

The sunflowers broadly smile. 

The flowers are soulless now, 

For the subtle charm of their breath 

Has gone with the bloom of the April bough 
And the fair May's faded wreath. 

But a fuller fragrance loads 

The orchard atmosphere, 
And the farmer's wain on the dusty roads 

Is sweet with the spoils of the year. 



THESE STARRY HOURS. 

The apple's glowing cheek 

Hangs over the garden wall, 
And the creaking boughs of the peach-trees speak 

The pride that warns of fall. 

The purple grapes are borne 

Rejoicing to the press, 
While the tasselled fields of yellow corn 

Yield up their plenteousness. 

Thy blushing draught lift up, 

O Nature ! for o'erbrims 
Its living wine, and round the cup 

Begin thy harvest hymns. 

Ay, sing the harvest hymn 

Of thankfulness and trust. 
While tears of joy your eyes bedim, 

For toilers of the dust ! 

Earth's curse to blessedness 

By man's long patience grows ; 
And Faith proclaims, '* The wilderness 

Shall blossom like the rose." 



25 



THESE STARRY HOURS. 

Now in yon deep'ning azure field 

The kindly stars outshine, 
And light the earth's gray-shadowed shield 

With beauty half divine. 
3* 



26 THESE STARRY HOURS. 

Their bright hosts marshal in the skies, 

Day's last red banner furled, 
To watch with steady sent'nel eyes 

The silent, sleeping world. 

These starry hours reflected lie 

On glassy lake and river, 
And smile to hear old ocean cry, 

'^ Forever and forever." 
The ancient hills they crown with glory. 

And as in pity lave 
With silver light the wrecks of story, 

That mark the dead Past's grave. 

These starry hours, the coolmg dews 

Refresh the thirsting earth ; 
The sprites their air-poised stations choose, 

To wait the blossom's birth ; 
The stream sings louder, for it hath 

No vexing rival sound. 
As when rude day hums o'er its path. 

And jars the echoes round. 

These starry hoiirs, the quiet dead 

Rest well, though Grief would fain 
Invoke their shades from churchyard bed 

To soothe her yearning pain. 
They rest, and better far than those 

In life's drtam-ridden sleep, 
Who, stung by cares that mock repose. 

Oft waken but to weep. 

These starry hours, earth's mournful song 
Lifts up on wind and sea : 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 27 

"■ How long, oh, mercy's God ! how long 

Shall sin and suff 'ring be?" 
And bending with its brooding calm 

O'er valley, plain, and hill. 
Heaven's silence answers, breathing balm, 

'' O Earth, be patient still !" 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

Chime, bells of Christmas, chime ! 
Far o'er the frosty rime. 
The wintry centuries crown ! 

While near. 
From tower and belfry brown, 
In many a tone rung down. 

We hear 
The farewell of the Year. 

Hark! still 
Repeating without cease, 

*' Good will," 

''Goodwill," 

*'Good will and peace." 

Chime, bells of Christmas, chime ! 

Ye bring the happy time 

When Christ the Lord was born. 

So near. 
That with the Shepherd throng 
The Angel's joyful song 

We hear, 



28 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

The blessing of the Year. 

Hark ! still 
The heavenly tones increase, 

''Goodwill," 

''Good will," 

" Good will and peace." 

Chime, bells of Christmas, chime ! 
Hearts callous grown in crime 
Shall feel a thrill of awe 

And fear, 
As from your silver throats, 
Rung out in earnest notes, 

They hear 
The warning of the Year. 

Hark! still 
A sound that will not cease, 

"Goodwill," 

"Goodwill," 

" Good will and peace." 

Chime, bells of Christmas, chime ! 
Prophetic and sublime 
Your voices thunder down, 

Full, clear, 
From tower and belfry brown. 
City and country's crown, 

We hear 
The promise of the Year ! 

Hark ! still, 
In tones that cannot cease, 

"Goodwill," 

"Good will," 

"Good will and peace." 



SA VANNAH. 



29 



SAVANNAH. 

1875- 

At early morning gray, I passed in streets 

Where silence reigned. A light wind shed the sweets 

Of dew-fresh orange-flowers and roses through 

The leafy arches of each avenue. 

Where'er I turned, long ranks of stately trees 

Made vistas, where tost to and fro the breeze, 

Like the shuttle of some morning-woven dream, 

Its mingled warp of shadow and of gleam. 

And ever and anon a grassy square 
Made beautiful the way, or sprayed the air 
With fountain foam, or throned a lovely mound 
With ivy dark, and blue-bloomed myrtle wound ; 
Or raised some monumental shaft on high, 
The index of a deathless memory. 

Far back on the river's breast, thronged mast on mast, 
Black-lined stems, a grove at anchor, glassed 
'Twixt crystal elements, above, below, 
Like some mirage seen down the dual row 
Of sentry trees, that whispered each to each 
Some watchword musical, transcending speech. 

I reached the city park, and passed between 
Twin Sphinxes at the entrance, guard serene 
Of its broad gravel-walk, whose centre broke 
To circling water-play and fountain-smoke 



30 



SA VANNAH. 



In a basin rarely wreathed, as if its flowers 

Were blown through its Triton horns 'mid silver showers. 

Tall pines and live-oaks, trees of varied bloom, 
O'erarched each winding path with pleasant gloom ; 
Here gnarled cacti sprang, there hillocks tied 
With vines, or wakeful mounds wide pansy-eyed ; 
And peering through a latticed arbor's haze, 
I met, with a start, the captive eagle's gaze. 

Dropt on a rustic seat, I faced the bound, 
In iron traced, that veiled, not hid, the ground 
Beyond, a treeless, meadow-like expanse. 
Well fitted to its uses at the glance, — 
With one mid monument to solemn shade 
The living columns that should there parade. 

A tribute to the dead ! No straight shaft plain, 

But from the base a gradual upward wane 

Of polished brownstone, by a capped roof graced. 

On pillars four uplifted, 'neath which placed 

A statued Silence stands with finger set 

On lip, and droopt head imaging regret. 

Above is Justice with her closed scroll, 

With looks unread, yet full of calm control, — 

A marble mystery ! O sphinx, unfold 

To us thy riddle ere our hearts grow cold ! 

Inscrutable, a carven cloud of white. 

Thou standest 'gainst the blue, the infinite. 

O Forest City ! dear to many a heart. 
The exile from thy shades is still a part 



ON RETURNING A MENDED FAN 



31 



Of thee ; thy whispering through his dreams he hears; 
Thy spires prismatic shine athwart his tears, — 
The golden city of his pilgrim dreams, — 
More sweet and real than life and fortune seems. 



ON RETURNING A MENDED FAN. 

You say that I broke this. A lady 

Must not be gainsaid. Even so. 
Yet for once I'll your memory fady 

Revive. It was some nights ago, 

When my fair friend, whose fiats are reckoned 
By fashion, '^undoubtedly right," 

With a gest of her white finger, beckoned 
Me under the chandelier's light. 

There she stood in a group of youth doree, 
The ball's star, with golden-rayed head, 

Some beams of her sovereign glory 
On me not unwilling to shed. 

Half tired of the dance, and all weary 

Of the Babel of Vanity Fair, 
I approached with a mien rather dreary, 

And offered a tete-a-tete chair. 

Did I fancy her vext with the folly 
Of the flattering fools in her train ? 

Not so ! — and the mute melancholy 
Of the old slave she thought to retain. 



32 



THE ORIGIN OF MAIZE. 

And his silent contempt of the others 

By that quiet gesture implied^ — 
She resented. A wrath which scarce smothers 

Its flame at the bidding of pride 

Down o'er her fair forehead fell lowering, 

As swiftly it turned on the man 
So presuming a look, from whose giow'ring 

He shrank. Ah ! that tap of the fan 

Was needless. Its ivory laces 
Were broken, like cobweb, to tell 

That no longer the net of her graces 

Should spread for such rebels. 'Tis well. 

Ay, resolve so, ma belle, for vainly 
You'll seek the old charm to renew 

That I felt in you once, and too plainly 
Revealed when I fancied you — true ! 

For I swear that whatever you've broken, 
Of heart, or of life's cherished plan, 

(May this note of farewell be the token !) 
'Tis mended — with this mended fan. 



THE ORIGIN OF MAIZE. 

AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

In the days when the grand, old woods untamed 

Stood erect in the sunset's red. 
Or besprinkled the rushing floods. unnamed 

With the bloom of their summer's dead, 



THE ORIGIN OF MAIZE. 33 

Lived a maid in a hunter's lodge, as fair 

As a flower of the forest rude, 
And as free as the free, untroubled air 

Of its infinite solitude. 

Now, a spirit whose haunt was the river-shore. 

Oft caressing her slender feet, 
Saw the maiden with love, as her face bent o'er 

The waves of his winding-sheet, 
And so limpid and sweet her beauteous eyes, 

Whence her innocent soul outshone, 
That the god of the stream with vapory sighs 

Swore the maiden to be his own. 

Then he twined his brow with the dripping -^^^^K 

And the water-lily fair, 
And in desperate mood for a daring deed 

Sprang erect from his liquid lair ; 
Like a startled gazelle the maid leaped back 

'Neath the forest's sheltering wing, 
With the flight of a fawn, when fierce hounds track, 

She escaped from the flood's bold king. 

But the sons of the gods are fleeter far 

Than the daughters of mortal kind. 
With the rush of a meteoric star 

He pursues, though she flies like wind ; 
Now a bend of the stream her path bars o'er, 

In her fear she has run towards death ! 
Close behind her, the god of that fatal shore, — 

And she shivers to feel his breath. 

And she panted a prayer to Manitou, 
With the cry that surpasses creeds 

4 



34 



THE ORIGIN OF MAIZE, 

In the hour of despair, and swift she flew 

To a bower of river reeds. 
And their stems all closely about her wound 

As she swayed in their shivering storm, 
When, behold ! in their light embraces bound 

She is changed to another form. 

Root her feet in the earth while her rounded arms 

Into banner-like leaves are grown. 
And a tapering stalk, her heart yet warmSy 

May be seen with its fringed top blown ; 
Half the silk of her hair, sheaved 'round the pearls 

Just flashed from her last smile's scorn. 
Now the kernels of milk, the dainty whorls 

Of a beautiful ear of corn. 

Thus arrested, the god his chaplet flings 

On the waves of his subject stream. 
And its murmuring current sweetly sings 

A lament for his vanished dream. 
Then his passionate spirit, by love betrayed, 

Is dissolved into dewy sprays, 
To adorn with a crown of tears the maid 

Metamorphosed to tender maize. 

But as long as the rivers scorn the chain 

Of their future and white-faced kings. 
And as long as the pale moons wax and wane 

O'er a forest, like shadowing wings, 
As the moccasined foot of the red man strays 

Where his bannered fields unfurl, 
Will he liken the rustling of the maize 

To the flight of a timid girl. 



NATURE VS. CREMATION— A CHILD'S CRY. 



35 



NATURE VERSUS CREMATION. 

Sublimely patient mother ! teaching now, 

As ever, from illuminated scroll 
Abloom with stars and flowers, thy laws. Oh, thou 

Whose lessons wake, and fain would nurture soul 
To giant growth, but that the wayward Will 

Once serpent-charmed, their gentle truth defies, 
To read in dust the serpent's wisdom still, — 

Shunning the light divine of thy clear eyes, — 
Now man would snatch the soul-deserted shell. 

Thy hand that shaped from clay, would slow return 
To dust in gradual season, and lay waste 

Its haunted cell with flames of horror ! Well, 
O Love and Grief, your tears may flow, while burn 

Such funeral altars of unseemly haste. 



A CHILD'S CRY. 

It cries aloud, the little child ; 

Blue eyes rain o'er with tears 
(Storm in a nut-shell kindled wild,- 

The embryo storm of years). 

It cries aloud, expends its woe 
In grief's emphatic sound ; 

Our later cries turn inward so 
To deepen life's deep wound. 



36 FRAGMENT— AMABEL. 

It cries aloud, till soothing comes 
That answers and relieves ; 

Our pride, that later grief benumbs 
To silence, so bereaves. 

Yet, oh ! the cry unheard of man 

May swifter rise to ears 
Unheedful never in the plan 

That sends the heart its tears. 

For we His children are, — held still 
Against His Father breast ; 

He knows our pangs without our will, 
And hushes them to rest. 



FRAGMENT. 



What says the autumn sigh 

Of the singing, whispering wind? 
"All things wither and all things die, 
For man has sinned." 
O wind, 
That bearest to us this sorrowful lay, 
Bear us from sin and death away. 



AMABEL. 



A SLENDER wind-swayed form ; an opal face. 

Now pale, now flushed, — transfigured by each grace 

Of fancy and of feeling ; eyes gold-gray, 

Like lakes i' the lull of storms, yet shot with ray 



AMABEL. 37 

Of sudden lightning when th' electric hour 
Awaked a soul surcharged with magnet power. 

You saw not this at first. An impress vague, 
Once meeting her, grew phantom-like to plague 
The memory with its picture indistinct 
Of something to which interest was linkt 
Indissolubly, but why, the reason vexed 
Itself resolving, and remained perplexed. 

There was no rich attire, no studied style. 
Catching the eye with tricks that half beguile, 
Half aid remembrance. Neutral-tinted brown 
To Indian-summer haziness toned down 
Her simple costume, yet it drew the mind 
With the mystery of beauty undefined. 

Again I met her, in the social throng. 
Some harmony like Mendelssohnic song 
Was in her dress of misty gray \ her mien 
So soft and childlike, but so like a queen 
When turned on some false flatterer in her train, 
It smote him with its still and fine disdain. 

Then at the opera I saw arise 

The April soul of music in her eyes. 

Now widening them like sun-waked flowers, again 

Softening their lustre with a shadowy rain. 

Until my own for sympathy became 

The mirrors of their varying cloud and flame. 

At church, a kneeling statue tranced in calm, 
Sh^ lingered, drinking as of Gilead's balm, 

4^ 



38 



SONNET TO FOE. 



So thankful and adoring was the face 

That seemed to seek and find the fount of grace, 

So full of seraph love the look that turned 

On the cross that high in the chancel-window burned. 

Once more we met, my heart oppressed with care, 
And grief's dejection brooding in my air, 
For the moment unconcealed by manhood's pride ; 
Then saw I, as in sleep, her vision glide 
Beside me, moved with selfless sympathies, 
Whose healing rays the deep source of my sighs 
Felt to the centre with a sudden thrill, 
Then, magically lulled to rest, grew still ! 

A woman half an angel ! low I said 

Unto the heart so subtly comforted ; 

I thought of Jacob, when through sorrow's dream 

His heavenly ladder stretched with wings agleam ! 

An angel half a woman ! for replies 

To my uplifted, love-imploring eyes. 

Where leaps the soul, that fate may no more crush 

The sudden, sweet confusion of a blush. 



SONNET TO POE. 

Oh, poet soul, wild tossing in the weird 
Of life's great mysteries, of passions blent. 
And mixed with that white, vaporous drop attent 
(Once Shakspeare saw it in the moon ensphered). 
Dropped from its hollow caves mayhap the tear 
Of some lost spirit, lost and yearning ever 
Back to the scene of earth's frustrate endeavor, 



LINES ON A GRAVE-MOUND. 

Condemned and exiled far from hope and fear ! 
Oh, poet heart, in elements combined 
Of strength and weakness dear shalt thou remain, 
While human woes claim fellowship with pain. 
And spirit-suffering dominate the mind ; 
Thine epitaph (by passion's sigh breathed low 
Eternally) infelix Edgar Foe / 



39 



LINES ON A GRAVE-MOUND, 

EXHIBITED AT A FAIR. 

SiSTE viator ! Stranger pause ! 
The sternest one of nature's laws 
Claims tribute at the craftsman's will 
In this, the end of human skill. 

Through all the bustle of the crowd. 
Through fanfarons of trumpets loud, 
Through dust of trampling hoofs, that flies 
In clouds to vex the unclouded skies. 

From stall to stall, where glittering shows 
The panoramic trades disclose, — 
Jostled by earth's vast brotherhood, — 
Caught in a net of bad and good, — 

Moved constantly, — now stay to breathe, — 
Let yon wild, wanton waves that wreathe 
Their human spray in myriad forms, — 
Here strand you safe awhile from storms. 



40 CRY OF THE COMMUNE. 

Behold this mound ! 'Tis naught, and yet 
Tears, costlier than the diamond, wet 
Such work ! 'Tis nothing, — still this span 
Is man's epitome of man. 

This concave arch is set with shells, — 
Those genii-prisons of the sea, 
Whose plaintive whispering foretells 
Some change and wondrous mystery. 

The pulse beats slow, the awe-struck mind 
To one weird image is resigned. 
It sees, and life abates its breath, 
Through all the masks — the mask of Death, 

Of old, 'mid revels in the East, 
A skeleton oppressed the feast, — 
And mirth yet rings in charnel air, 
For, lo ! a grave-mound at the fair ! 

Yet though dissolves, like mortal breath, 
All other shows, this show of death, — 
Take courage ! Past the grave's control 
Floats free that breath divine, — the soul ! 



CRY OF THE COMMUNE. 

''WHO HAVE NO LANGUAGE BUT A CRY.' 

Brothers of houses palatial, 

Who on the broad boulevards walk 

Complacent, each lineament facial 
Retrousse with sneers, as you talk 



CRY OF THE COMMUNE. 

Of canaille, those wretches, who, haggard. 
With lowering brows, eyes askance, 

In hate for your love, are not laggard, — 
Brave gallants in death's dreadful dance. 

Brothers, whose sweethearts flaunt gayly 

Their silks in the sheen of the sun ; 
Brothers, whose pleasures live daily 

When our wretched labor's begun ; 
Where trumpet and string-tongued, sweetly 

Falls music like wine on the ear 
Inebriate drinking, while fleetly. 

Feet tripping its measures appear. 

Brothers, whose eyes glow and soften 

To melting, those eyes looking in 
Uplifted to meet them, full often. 

Meshed deep in the love-toils within. 
How hard are your glances, how cruel, 

Confronted by misery's face ! 
False love void of pity ! Oh, jewel 

Of true love, where hideth thy grace ? 

Brothers, the Man of all sorrows, 

Acquainted with grief, did not turn 
From us, although thorn -pierced morrows 

He saw in His path, nor did spurn 
The hand of the wretch, howe'er grimed 

With filth of the gutter. His palm 
Outstretched to bless. His touch timed, 

The feverish pulses to calm. 

Brothers, who kneel on white marble 
O'erstained with iridescent glow, 



41 



42 



GOOD-FRIDAY. 

Who praying with mockery garble, 
By earth's passions tost to and fro, 

Behold, where j^on censer has shifted 
Its vaporous incense, just where 

Yon cross i' the chancel's uplifted, 
Reproachfully lifted in air. 

Behold it, sublime in its anguish, 

Divine with the weight of its woes ; 
Behold it, and let your hearts languish 

With shame for the contrast it shows. 
One glance of such pity expended 

To warm us, — sweet charity's wine, — 
One tithe of the love there extended. 

We'll worship in you, — His divine ! 



GOOD-FRIDAY. 

Darkness at noon on earth ! 
Night deeper than hung o'er the birth 
Of Him doomed here to die ; 
For then the glorious Eastern Star 
Rode high o'erhead, proclaiming far 
The Mighty Prince of Peace to be ; 

Here, see, — 
His throne on Calvary. 

Scornful the faces 'round, — 
A fierce, deep hatred here has bound 
The gentle Teacher, Him, whose law 
Of love thrills haughtiest souls with awe. 



WINTER SONG FOR THE HEARTH. 43 

And circles Him in this dread hour, 
When pure Love's all-sustaining power 
A moment leaves Him, and His cry 
Of desolation sounds, — 

"Oh, why. 
My God, hast Thou forsaken me?" 

The spirit flies its tenement. 

All earth's foundations shake ! 

The graves are opened and walk forth 

The pallid dead, — awake ! 

The temple's veil is rent in twain, — 

Ay ! " it is finished !" — all things duly, — 

Hear Rome's centurion proclaim 

With quaking heart and proud head bent, 

While round him Judah's mountains nod 

With awful and sublime assent, — 

''Truly 
This was the Son of God !" 



WINTER SONG FOR THE HEARTH. 

The wind blows cold ! 

Old winter's all in silver stoled. 

But then he has a heart of gold ! 

Of fiery gold ! 

On every hearth it throbs and glows. 

And all the world its comfort knows. 

The snow falls fast, — 

The air is thick with whirling ghosts, — 

Star spirits fluttering down in hosts. 



44 



WIN TEA' SONG FOR THE HEARTH. 

The short day's past, — 

The children court the ruby flame 

That crowns King Log of fabled name, 

And nut-shells cast 

Upon his breast — fay goblets fine, 

That fill with light like sapphire wine. 

While apples roast, 

And little feet grow '* warm as toast" 

Upon the mild Pacific coast 

Skirting the fire, 

Whose waves leap ever brighter through 

That Afrite throat, — the chimney-flue. 

Papa's great chair 

And anchoring slippers now await 

Their customary nightly freight. 

And opposite, there, 

With basket, thimble, needle, yarn, 

And stockings all laid out to darn. 

Is home's sweet stay ! 

Full well we know, without her, all 

The fabric of our home would fall, 

All hearts give way, 

xAnd winter's hearth lose all its cheer 

Without the mother sitting near: 



WINGED LOVE. 45 



WINGED LOVE. 

If Love were but as mortals paint, 
A mortal god, but half divine, 

Ours then might be the mock, the feint, 
The poisoned draught of passion's wine. 

But take the bandage from his eyes, — 
The sins of mortals bound it there, — 

And all the light of heaven lies 
Within their depths celestial, fair. 

Too steady e'er to know a change ; 

Too pure for aught of passion's stain; 
Too fair for mortal's dazzled range 

Of sight to encounter without pain. 

Alas ! and born with wings, but ne'er. 
Like butterfly, with them to rove. 

So Fancy paints in idle air ; 
Not such — ^not such is real Love. 

But winged for upward flight from earth, 
A moment poised in lower air. 

He leaves the faithless in their dearth 
To learn from loss the power of prayer. 



46 BIEN-GANT^E. 



BIEN-GANTEE. 

An exquisite shade of the morning's 
Pearl gray, — a hand cased a ravir ! 

To speak of a woman's adornings 

One should be a Frenchman, 'tis clear. 

A rosebud ensheathed not more closely, — 

The dust on a butterfly's wing 
Not more delicate tinted. Who knows the 

Fine phrase for so dainty a thing 

As that hand in its glove? Touch of fingers 

So lightly encount'ring my own, 
(London-smoke sheathed for use) how it lingers 

When memories sterner are flown ! 

Then the dove-breasted palm softly shaded 

The clear deeps of violet eyes, 
By the sunlight, too, rudely invaded, 

And drowned in them, powerless to rise. 

My heart fell. Oh, lovely hand gantee ! 

Pearl-arched o'er those orbs drawing mine, 
With a glimpse of that Paradise Dante 

In Beatrice saw so divine. 



THE END OF A DYNASTY. 47 

THE END OF A DYNASTY. 

1878. IN ZULULAND. 

When greatness stirs the dust called earth, 

And moulds it to heroic form, 
All nations feel its throes of birth, 

All elements to aid it storm. 

Rocked in convulsion, wind and wave, 

When, comet-like, creating law. 
From island birth to island grave, 

Napoleon's course the People saw. 

The Destiny called Bonaparte, 

That shook the European mind, 
Though greatest of earth's — least like to start 

For fear of greatness self-combined. 

And ere this dazzling light could wane 

That glorious crowned th' Imperial throne. 

The thing called Race awoke again, 
A second Napoleon outshone. 

In lesser radiance, perchance. 

Borrowing the state that wraps a Name, 

The Second, French, — the First was France, 
Ay, Europe, in his height of fame. 

In gloom again this Light went down. 

Again in prison and exile set, 
But left its memory of renown 

To one young breast, an amulet. 



48 JP THY HEART FAIL THEE, 

To one young breast, the Bayard pure, 

Of that doomed greatness, who should wear 

Its violet stained, on heart so sure 
With faith, 'twould turn to lily there. 

Last of his dynasty, and best ! 

Oh, gentle Prince, — a world's regret, — 
We lay upon thy place of rest 

Love's real Imperial violet. 



IF THY HEART FAIL THEE, CLIMB 
NOT AT ALL. 

QUEEN ELIZABETH ON A WINDOW. 

Full many a wight feels urgent need 

Of some strong, fiery courser's speed. 

To appease the "cabined, cribbed, confined," 

Yet vagrant longing of the mind 

Called Fancy ! Still must he beware. 

Nor summon forth from lightning lair. 

Too rashly, that wind-winged steed, — 

Flame-breathing Pegasus. 

The deed 
Once done, — poor Fancy once astride, 
May dearly earn her eerie ride. 
Not wilder the wild Huntsman's track. 
With yelling hounds upon his back. 
Across defiles of night and death, 
With leaps that paralyze the breath, — 
Through woods whence elfin shadows start 
To chill the life-blood 'round the heart : 



CLIMB NOT AT ALL. 

Through floods whose waters lift up dread 
And dark, a shroud above the head ! 

Ah ! well his wrist needs firm control, 

And well must he possess his soul. 

Who dares such journey ! Surely knows 

Proud Pegasus, what hands may close 

Upon his mane, — hands whose strong grasp 

No skyey vaultings may unclasp ! 

Too oft the rider rash he throws. 

As streaked through heaven his pathway glows. 

With star-dust struck from flying hoofs, — 

A sudden meteor o'er the roofs 

Of cities j — through the drowsy air 

Of peaceful vales, — projectile rare 

Thrown in some Titan play of worlds ! 

Then speeds the unhorsed to his fall, — 

Dropt cold on this terrestrial ball ! — 

And yet, though all the timid jeer. 

Those home-kept wits, fast-leasht by fear. 

The dear delight of that one ride 

May warm the heart and nerve the pride 

To bear all taunts of ignorance 

In silence ! 

Failure in the glance 
That seeks the highest, well may be 
Far nobler than the power to see 
Earth's gilded dross successfully. 

But some there are, who, fancy wild, 
Distraught, and readily beguiled, 
Mistake their " mount" (Hail ! British slang !). 
The Pegasus the poets sang 
Ne'er arched his neck to hear their call. 

5* 



49 



so 



NIGHT AND SLEEP. 

Deaf as an Eastern Djin to all 
Who bear not the magician's stamp, 
The signet ring, or magic lamp 
As token that he must obey, 
He laughs to scorn their puny sway, 
And leaves them blind, deluded still, 
To grope around th' Olympian hill, 
And sees them ride without remorse, 
Safe sped, some valiant — hobby-horse ! 



NIGHT AND SLEEP. 

Come, night and sleep ! 
Wind, wind your poppy wreaths about my brain, 
And drop their opiate dews upon my heart, 

Until it weep 
No more such tears for life and love and art : — 

Reprieved from pain ! 

Come, Lethean loss, 
And closing dark, yet starry shot with gleams 
Of heaven, in those bright memories called dreams,- 

Mem'ries that keep 
The hues of hope, and rainbow-edged, sweep 

Sleep's sky across. 

Come, nor delay, 
Dark gentle brethren, weirdly wrapt in calm. 
Press o'er these aching brows a restful palm. 

And hide, I pray. 
From these tired eyeballs now the garish day. 



CALM. 51 

And while there wind 
A stealing silence through these echoing ears, 
Oh, bind the spell of love that cast out fears, 

An amulet, 
Upon this heart, that shocks of stormy years 

Have so beset, 
That in its earthy fortress undermined. 
It shakes at every puff of idle wind. 

Come, come, oh, come ! 
I feel your lingering fingers weave me 'round 
With ghostly peace of slumbering profound, 
That shuts me out from sight and sense and sound, 

Blind, deaf, and dumb. 

Behold ! a breath 
Alone divides this stillness of repose, — 
This nightly folding of the human rose — 
This day's most welcome, yet pathetic close 

From that called Death ! 



CALM. 



Is there a tideless sea, where sleep 

The passions after tossing wild ? 

The hush of loves so undefiled 

By earth's fruition, that they keep 

The hues of heaven, and half its peace — 

(Not all) ? 

Such bliss would lift and heave 
Its glittering billows o'er the " cease" 



52 



CALM. 

The shore says to the sea, and leave 
The earth the richer with increase. 

Is there a lull of tempest born, 
When golden airs the woods unfold 
And lull, like babes that mothers hold. 
Safe even from a thought forlorn ? 
When every bird folds soft its wing 
In nested peace too sweet to sing? 
Say, is there such ? If such there be, 
My soul has found it in the hour 
When that freed soul returns with power 
To still its throbbings — erst how wild ! — 
And fold it like a sleeping child 
In some deep spiritual charm. 
As if it lay against Love's arm 
Close folded to that blessed breast 
Whose brooding warmth is perfect rest. 
O Love, O Love ! what charm can be 
So blissful as repose with thee ? 
No shadow lifts from earthy care 
To dim the golden, lucent air 
Enwrapping thee, while breaks the tide 
Of happiness far, bright, and wide 
About us, as with heart to heart 
We dread no morrow that shall part. 



DE PROFUNDIS. 53 



DE PROFUNDIS. 

A GREAT magician wove a spell 

Of sadness round me. Pang to pang, 
My heart responded to the swell 

Of his, — ^olian echoes rang 
With sharp distinctness from the caves 

Of mine own wild-wood griefs profound, — 
All earth clanged hollow from her graves. 

And blind with woe the spheres spun round. 

This earthly frame,' that cannot bear 

What spirit must, at last succumbed ; 
And hushed beneath a calm despair 

My nerves ; my aching senses numbed, 
I slept, — a sleep as still and deep 

As mountain lakes, from men removed, 
In haunted solitude, — a sleep 

I scarce would wish to one I loved. 

I waked, — and hardly knew if earth 

Or fairer orb ensphered me, — new 
To all experience. Some new birth 

Of feeling, Soul seemed struggling through. 
The opal eve had faded quite. 

A lunar night, all lustrous pale, 
Was flooding me with silver light, — 

A white peace brooding in its veil. 

I lay as one long dead who wakes. 
Yet scarce is broke his late repose, 

So still and deep. Earth round him shakes. 
His heavy eyes would fain reclose ! 



^4 BEYOND. 

A whisper through the vast deep blue 
He hears, yet stirs not ; then a sweet 

But awful angei trump smites through 
His trance, — he staggers to his feet ! 

As down the moon-built ladder came 

And went the vision Jacob saw, 
Rock-pillowed in the wild, aflame 

With heaven, — oh, sight of love and awe !- 
So to my soul the word "arise," 

Came winged adown the slant moonbeams. 
And risen beneath the silver skies, 

I thanked the God of souls for dreams. 



BEYOND. 



What lies beyond? We cannot tell. 

The eye and ear to see and hear 
Are strained. Like some far-echoing bell 

The Past rings down to us, full and clear. 

The Future's dumb. Speak, sealed lips ; 

Speak, closed eyes of mystery. 
Whose statuesque white lids eclipse 

The visions starred there, yet to be. 

Oh, blind, blind fate, on which we rush 
So helpless, — wistful, — yet so sure, 

Is it a Moloch that shall crush, 

Or some strong seraph fair and pure ? 



THE PALACE OF TEAKS. 55 

We know not, but the starved heart 

Believing in the thing it seeks, 
To hear the dark doubt will upstart 

With words like those a Python speaks. 

It cannot be ! Nay, God is good. 

The sparrow's fall He counts, and gives 
To every raven mouth its food. 

With Him our Future loves and lives. 



THE PALACE OF TEARS. 

Rise, rainbow-arched and cloud-embraced, 

Pale palace of my dream. 
Whose misty outline once I traced 

In moonlight's mystic gleam, 
And by some spirit earthward strayed. 

Whose home the moon enspheres, 
Was led a shade through halls of shade, 

Where glistened only tears ! 

The dripping dome like silver glowed. 

The walls with briny pearls 
Were crusted o'er, the floor I trod 

With countless eddying whirls 
Of diamond water drops spun 'round ; 

I moved — a ghost — unheard, — 
Not freer from pursuit of sound 

The shadow of a bird. 



56 THE PALACE OF TEARS. 

And moving on, an open court 

Appeared, where tossed and caught 
Their murmuring streams in sullen sport. 

Dark fountains, jewel fraught ; 
I stooped to drink, — recoiled in haste, — 

The Lethean flow of years 
Can never wash away that taste, 

That bitter taste of tears. 

As if by that one draught of dole 

My vision cleared, and lo ! 
The iron entered in my soul. 

While in a wizard show 
The weary, weary-footed train 

Of mortal miseries, 
The pilgrimage of human pain, 

Defiled before my eyes. 

And I, who grief had known in name, 

And sympathy in form. 
Now trembled through my inmost frame, 

A shaken reed in storm ; 
Yet fascinated, though in fear, 

I saw each pallid face. 
Where sorrow's burning, branding tear 

Had left its ashen trace. 

And drawn by secret sense of pain 

To that o'er-burdened throng, 
I joined my trouble to the train, 

My minor to the song ; 
And on from hall to hall we trod. 

And still our number swelled, 
A wild, weird labyrinth, yet, O God, 

Thy clue our fingers held ! 



THE PALACE OF TEARS. 

At length a chapel door arched wide, 

And, driven by sense of sin. 
Our ever-moaning human tide 

Its weary wave rolled in ; 
And down the mighty aisle was lost. 

Where light through pillars hoar, 
And silver-edged shadows crost 

The consecrated floor. 

A lovely light, — a mystic moon 

Seemed hallowing all the air; 
'Twas like a dream in summer noon, 

A peaceful dream and fair. 
Our pain-wrought nerves relaxed to rest. 

We sank upon the pave, 
As lulled as children at the breast. 

Or good men in the grave. 

And kneeling in the tender gloom, 

A vision seemed to glow 
From out the chancel's shadowing room, 

White, luminous as snow ; 
A man, most human, most divine. 

Whose wondrous eyes down shone. 
Full, bright, and searching, into mine, — 

Twin stars in twilight grown. 

Oh, gaze of healing, balm-rayed eyes ! 

My heart was sweetly stirred. 
Then nestled down with calmed sighs 

As sinks to rest a bird ; 
Around me knelt a tearful throng 

Of burdened brothers, yet 
A subtle radiance, pale but strong. 

Illumed their faces wet. 
6 



57 



5$ THE PALACE OF TEARS. 

And still those eyes, whose depths were clear 

As heaven's pure ether, drew 
Our hearts, as draws the moon's bright sphere 

The ocean's surging blue; 
Till longing in us seemed to grow 

To strange and yearning pain ; 
When, lo ! those blessed eyes overflow 

And melt in tender rain. 

He weeps ! He weeps ! A cross fire-rayed 

Flames near Him, and He leans 
The sacred head, by man betrayed. 

Upon it. Intervenes 
'Twixt us and our deserved woe 

That strong God-sorrow white, — 
High heaven's melted mountain snow,— 

Till self is washed from sight. 

And, broken-hearted for each tear 

Our crimes have made Him shed, 
Repentant love that casts out fear 

Would fain abase its head 
In dust, where those pure feet have been, 

And hear in silver flow 
The words, *' Though scarlet is your sin. 

Yet ye shall be as snow." 

Oh, Love ! whose palace heights arise 

So dim to mortal sight. 
Forever blessed be the eyes 

That catch the heavenly light ; 
Though sadly still while Time rolls on 

His sorrow-burdened years. 
We see them like a rainbow dawn, 

A hope that shines through tears. 



THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 59 



THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 

From the broad and calm Potomac 

To the Rio Grande's waves, 
Have the brave and noble fallen, 

And the earth is strewn with graves. 
In the vale and on the hill-side, 

Through the wood and by the stream, 
Has the martial pageant faded 

Like the vision of a dream. 

Where the reveille resounded 

And the stirring call '' to arms !" 
Nod the drowsy heads of clover 

To the wind's mesmeric charms. 
Where the heels of trampling squadrons 

Beat to dust the mountain pass, 
Hang the dew-drop's fragile crystals 

From the slender stems of grass. 

Where the shock of meeting armies 

Roused the air in raging waves, 
And with sad and hollow groanings 

Echoed earth's deep-hidden caves; 
Where the cries of crushed and dying 

Pierced the elemental strife ; 
Where lay death in sickening horror, 

'Neath the maddened rush of life; 

Quiet now reigns sweet and pensive, 
All is hushed in dreamy rest, 

And the' pitying arms of Nature 
Hold our heroes on her breast. 



6o THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 

Shield them well, O tender mother, 
While each morn and even's breath 

Whispers us, the sad survivors, 
Of their victory in death. 



What though no stately column 

Their cherished names may raise, 
To dim the eye and move the lip 

With gratitude and praise ? 
The blue sky, hung with bannered clouds, 

Their solemn dome shall be, 
And all the winds of heaven shall chant 

The anthem of the free. 

The spring with vine-leafed arms shall clasp 

Their hillocked resting-places. 
And summer roses droop above 

With flushed and dewy faces. 
Fair daisies, rayed and crowned, shall spring 

Like stars from out their dust, 
And look to kindred stars on high 

With eyes of patient trust. 

And vainly shall the witling's lips 

Assail with venomed dart 
The fame of our heroic dead, 

Whose stronghold is the heart ! 
The nation's heart, not wholly crushed. 

Though each throb be in pain, 
For life and hope will still survive 

Where love and faith remain. 



AN ANGEL UNA WARES. 61 

AN ANGEL UNAWARES. 

THE PESTILENCE OF '78. 

The ruined clouds that track a storm 

O'ershadowed like a pall 
That prostrate and defenceless form, 

Our Southland's in its fall. 

Disaster dogged defeat. Each hope 

Of convalescence born, 
Unfit with tyrant force to cope, 

Fell backward, chilled to scorn. 

" To reconstruct !" the futile cries 

Of Conquest, sullen heard ; 
For still her thrall's unconquered eyes 

Defied the hollow word. 

** In vain your selfish schemes are willed," 

A soul untamed by fate 
Breathed from them, — *' Vainly will ye build 

On malice, greed, and hate." 

Reaction came. The kindred blood 

Long foe, by rancor burned. 
Flowed calm. Instincts of brotherhood 

Stifled, — not dead, — returned. 

But smouldered still. What spark should light 

These half-suppressed desires ? 
What magic torch enkindle bright 

The ancient genial fires ? 



62 THE HEART'S DESIRE. 

God answered with a Masque of Death. 

His angel in disguise 
Swept down with pestilential breath 

And terror-dealing eyes. 

Stooping, he dried some tears for aye, 

But bid a thousand flow. 
The stricken South looked out to pray 

With face of utter woe. 

And with the cry of deep to deep 
Sprang up to meet this grief 

The North, like one aroused from sleep. 
With strong arms of relief. 

And smiled the angel as he bore 
His harvest sheaves above. 

The reign of brothers' hate was o'er, 
And Death made way for Love. 



THE HEART'S DESIRE. 

Come, when the rain -gray softly spreads 
O'er earth her mournful twilight shade. 

When flowers droop pensively their heads, 
And flower-souls in dust are laid. 

Come, come, for passion in my breast 
A yearning troop of ghosts has freed. 

They walk, — they stretch their arms of quest 
In empty air; they silent plead. 



THE HEARTS DESIRE. 63 

They cry ! Ah ! each one cries for thee 
That deep heart-cry that rends, to draw 

Its object to it, through a plea 
Of suffering that knows no law. 

And yet the lower soul must ne'er 

Call back the higher, freed and fair. 
The pain, a mighty link, but draws 

The less to the whole, — the effect to the cause. 

I love thee, and I suffer woe. 

Sustain my sad and swooning soul ; 
Bend over me with eyes that glow 

In the depths of mine W^th strong control. 

Ay, strong and sweet ! Like aspen leaf, 

AH pale and shivering, this hand 
Is stretched for thee in the night of grief, 

With longing that is like demand. 

Could I but touch thine in the dark, 

And feel its thrilling clasp enfold, 
I would not ask light's feeblest spark 

To guide me to the gates of gold. 

For all my being then would lean 

Upon thy angel loveliness. 
My poor head on thy breast serene. 

My heart would sound the depths of bliss. 

Dear God, Thou feedest the raven host 

That cry for food, to us unclean ; 
Thou every sparrow's downfall knowest. 

And clothest the common grass with green. 



64 THE HEART'S DESIRE. 

Shall I not trust Thee with the fire 
On my heart's altar burning wild 

Through years of pain ? '' The heart's desire. 
Thy promise is to every child. 



VERSES BY J. C. 



' To me, the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often he too deep for tears." 



65 



S 



SCOTLAND. 

Only a sprig of heather from the hills, 
Lifeless and dry for lack of light and air, 

Yet how my spirit in me moves and thrills. 
Touched by a half-revealed vision fair ! 

And what a longing wakes, but once to stand 

Within the borders of my father's land ! 

My father's land ! oh, land of gracious fame, 
Thy warrior-heroes my young fancy swayed ; 

I saw them through the battle's breath of flame 
Meet wild and thund'rous charges undismayed ; 

I saw them stand like princes on thy plain. 

When back before them died that fury vain. 

And in these later days my soul is moved 
By echoes of thy martyr-songs ; I see 

Thy noble martyr-army, the beloved 
Of saints and angels, drifting gloriously 

On flaming wings, with chantings clear and sweet. 

To pale in worship at the awful Feet. 

Still leaning to thee, listening, loud and strong 
Come to me from thy field, thy hill, and glen 

The lowly song, the true and tender song, 
From lips of children and unlettered men ; 

How sweet ! The nations listen lovingly. 

And echo back its sweetness ere it die. 

67 



68 SCOTLAND. 

Who is this moving through the morning fields, 
With wistful eyes upraised and dreamy tread; 

Who, pausing, kneels beside the plough he wields 
To mourn a mountain-daisy crushed and dead ; 

Who, grandly, in deep midnight sees arise 

Pale ''Libertie," with sorrow in her eyes? 

Oh, God-taught singer, whom man could but mar, 
Thine idle hands are cold upon thy breast. 

And, while thy songs are echoing near and far. 
Thou liest silent, calm, in lonely rest. 

And near thy buried head bends, dewy-eyed, 

The little flower thy song hast glorified. 

And who is this, the grand, gray-headed man, 
With childlike mouth and calm, majestic brow, 

Who sings of battle-shocks, where clan meets clan ; 
Whose last sad minstrel-song finds listeners now; 

Who brings again heroic days gone by, 

With tramp of steeds and trumpets' startled cry? 

And this, the sturdy delver in thy soil. 
With labor-stained hands and honest eyes, 

Who reaches downward after buried spoil, 
Great nature's hidden secrets to surprise ; 

Who stands with Moses on the world's dread rim, 

And sees earth recreate in vision dim ? 

Ah ! who are these, the clear-browed friends, who stand 
With faltering feet amid th' unheeding throng, 

Or upward press, locked ever hand in hand. 

To gain God-speeding, clearer heights of song, — 

A strange, sweet, broken strain, a thrilling moan, — 

Who stand, grief-dazed, on the cold heights alone ? 



SCOTLAND. 69 

These are thy poet-sons. O Land ! I know 
They are but as a tithe of great and good 

That throng thee, but from that vast overflow 
These most have cheered my weary solitude; 

These have passed with me through unwelcome ways ; 

These have cast sunbeams on my darkened days. 

What wonder that their tender praise of thee 
Should stir my heart to longings for thy worth ? 

What wonder that I cherish lovingly 

This little faded blossom of thine earth? 

What wonder that, as far away I stand, 

I sigh to thee a greeting, fatherland ? 

What wonder that I ever strive to trace 

Resemblance in these woods and vales to thee ? 

As one some dear and un forgotten face 

In all sweet, innocent faces needs must see, 

Smiling, "These lips are like her wondrously," 

Sighing, ''Sweet eyes, I know your mystery." 

I stand upon a hill and, looking down, 

Say, "Thus a Scottish road is dropped and wound;" 
I catch the falling pine-cones crisp and brown, 

With "Surely, such as these strew Scottish ground;" 
I breathe the breath of the dividing sea. 
And cry, " O Land, such breezes visit thee !" 

But, passing by a river in the sun. 

That through low, level banks sweeps smooth along, 
I muse, " Not thus my Highland rivers run. 

But downward through rock pathways with a song, 
Now laughter, now soft thunder as they go, 
As evermore they flow, and fall, and flow." 

7 



70 



SCOTLAND. 



And in the twilight time my soul is grieved ; 

" Not thus," I say, " thy suns make haste to set ; 
Not thus thy sky-depths are of light bereaved ; 

But faintly glowing, faintly failing, yet 
Thy light as tenderly and softly dies 
As laughter in a fair child's sleepy eyes." 

And yet I know that this same rest and calm 
Is on thee, O my country ; that this light 

Fills thy low valleys like a wordless psalm. 

And frets with tender fire each mountain-height ; 

I know in peaceful grandeur thou dost stand. 

And I shall never see thee, fatherland. 

Shall never tread thy field and moorland fair, 
Where old-world poet-feet have passed but late ; 

Shall never cross thy mountain-passes drear, 
By martyr-steps forever consecrate ; 

Shall never, kneeling on that sacred sod, 

Feel sudden nearness to the heart of God. 

Ah ! little heather that the breeze has kist, 

You have left hill-side, home, and glimmering glow 

Of morning sunshine slanting through the mist, 
All early rains and dews that softly flow, 

And blooming company, to come to me ; 

What have I you to give thus generously? 

A smile of welcome on you I can throw 
For that lost sunshine, and a light caress 

More loving than the singing wind can know ; 
And sometimes, from sheer pitying tenderness, 

Feeling I am as far from home as you, 

My tears shall fall for that lost rain and dew. 



A WEB OF TATTING. 



71 



A WEB OF TATTING. 

This is the window ; see, the Southern sun 

(Dasht with quaint shadow-leaves, that move and 
play) 
Falls in a fretted square 
Over this old oak-chair. 
Just as a thousand times it must have done 
When she sat silent here the livelong day. 

The livelong day, weaving this lacy web 

With deft white hands, that paused and wearied not, 
Except to let her cite 
A mock-bird's circling flight ; 
Or far below, the noon-wave's quiet ebb, — 

And blend with it some deep and dreamy thought. 

A gracious woman was she, — beauty born, — 
Too always conscious of it to seem aware ; 
She wore her beauty still, 
Seeming against her will, 
Though youth had faded, — youth's fine fervor gone, — 
With something of a tired, reluctant air. 

One gazing on her tranquil, dreamy face 

Had never guessed the passionate heart below ; 
Had never guessed the strife, 
The anguish of her life. 
That passed before that fine self-conquering grace 
Had calmed her heart, and clothed her beauty so. 



72 



A WEB OF TATTING. 



She dreamed one passionate dream, and it sufficed ; 
The day the cold clods fell upon his heart 
Joy, hope, ambition died, 
These faithful love denied ; 
Henceforth no luring voice of earth enticed ; 
She lived her stainless widow-life apart. 

Apart with those, his own, whose lives were marred 
By the same bitter loss that wrecked her own ; 
To these in loyal wise 
She lifted patient eyes. 
And served through fortune fair and evil-starred, 
Yielding her heart to no faint, fretful moan. 

But conquering through patience her despair. 

She learned to wait and work, and when her hands 
Unnerved, and heart-confused. 
All other work refused, 
She made this woven phantasy her care, 

And wrought in bitterest days these flowery bands. 

What life-despair and pain is woven here, 
Unseen of all who watched the fair design ! 
This circle means a sigh ; 
This rose a deep heart-cry ; 
These leaves were wet with many and many a tear ; 
The agony of years is in this vine ! 

But when at last the tear of grief could ebb, 
And gentle thoughts, like flowers after storm, 
Began to lift the head 
And some faint fragrance shed. 
She did not cast aside this simple web ; 

But wrought, and seemed to quicken thought there- 
from. 



A WEB OF TATTING. 



73 



Strange shadows from the world without swept by 
Those absent eyes, that watched the glancing thread ; 
Intrepid thought, that far 
Followed the latest star, 
Science, which wed with truth can never die ] 
Philosophies half false, and thus half dead. 

Dim dreams and fancies from the Muses' world. 
Sweetly attuned to music too, would drift 
Above her quiet soul 
Like morning mists, that roll 
O'er tranquil lakes, enwoven with fine gold. 
Until the wakening breeze shall bid them lift. 

She had the ear to hear, the eye to see ; 

The heart that, wise in silence, understands ; 
She might have won some crown 
Of this world's fair renown, 
Could she have stooped to blend familiarly 

With crowds, and tune her song to their demands. 

The world free with its gold, will never lack 
Its praises, sung in poet cadence fine ; 
Her part — her one delight, 
Always to walk in white. 
And all along life's dark and dusty track. 
Fearless to follow on the light divine. 

Here, Lelia, take the web ; some semblance fair 
Of shadowy leaves has passed into its face ; 
A wing of passing bird, 
A flower-bell, wind-stirred. 
And something of the whiteness fine and clear 
Of a pure life's most rare and perfect grace. 

7* 



74 



AFTER THE EPIDEMIC. 

Yes, Lelia, — take it, child, — and when the art 
Of love shall drape you faultless, and you go 
To that high altar bright 
Upon your bridal night. 
Wear this, and wear it nearer to your heart 
Than finest laces of your bridal snow. 



AFTER THE EPIDEMIC. 

SAVANNAH, JANUARY, 1 87 7. 

*^ It is over." 

Ah ! Who can say that ? 
What is over ? The passion, the grief, the despair. 
The cold snow of sorrow that whitens the hair 

And deadens the heart, where enthroned once sat 
Love with her crowned, beneficent crowd, 
Hope, peace, and heart-plenty, meek subjects that 

bowed 
At her feet and obeyed, — is this over, outrun ? 
Help me, God, for Thou know'st this is only begun ! 

What is over? The desolate days 
To be lived through and suffered, — the horror at night, 
When the wind is awake in its passionate might. 

And we sleep not for thinking with bitter amaze 
Of a slumber the storm will not break ; sunny hours 
When the light hurts and dazzles; the splendor of 

flowers, 
All as pale as his grave-lilies. Ah ! Is this done? 
I could die when I feel this is only begun. 



AFTER THE EPIDEMIC, 



75 



Yes, yes, it is over for him. 
My soldier undaunted who died at his post, 
In the ranks of God's merciful minist'ring host, 

The life-battle ended ; no shadow can dim 
The clear light of his life in the smile of his Chief. 
He ascended on wings the steep ladder of grief, 
I must mount in my pain, ere that Presence is won 
He has reached. Ah ! dear Victor, thy triumph's be- 
gun. 

Ah ! yes, it is over for her. 
The maiden who wore in her hair and her eyes 
The gold and the blue of God's wonderful skies. 

Looking out on the vistas of new life that were 
So crowded with rare possibilities sweet. 
She could scarcely have chosen one path for her feet 
All so tempted. Well, well, God himself made her 

choice, 
And she listened content to the awe of His voice. 

Christ ! let it be over for me ! 
Not sorrow, for sorrow must live while I live. 
It is love, — it is life, — it is all I can give 

To my crowned immortals ; but, oh ! let there be 
A great calm in my soul, let the tempest be past. 
Let me thank Thee unanguished that calm comes at last 
To the city I love, that her torture is o'er. 
Send peace to her dwellings, — her hearts, — I implore. 
But, ah! What is this? 

As I kneel, — kiss the rod, — 
To my touch it has blossomed, — the olive of God. 



76 FALLING LEAVES. 



FALLING LEAVES. 

See, it is morning, and the shady wood 

Is echoing now with childish voices sweet. 
The rippling sunshine, in a generous mood 
Of golden gladness, pours a sudden flood 

Over the old oak's gnarled and moss-grown feet. 
A small brown-coated bird half hops, half flies 

Into the lowly roadside thicket near ; 
And at the sound of steps, in wondering wise. 

The shy, brown, leaping rabbit stops to hear. 
While hushed and low 
The winds caress the grasses as they go. 

Already frost's keen finger here and there 

Has touched and marred the summer's faultless dress. 
The vines are withering, drooping everywhere ; 
A bird's forsaken nest of the old year 

Sways on a naked bough ; a restlessness 
Of fever and decay is in the leaves 

That tremble in the breeze above, and high 
With every waft of wind, there interweaves 

The crow's long, oft-repeated desolate cry. 
How sad, how faint 
The year's last dove is moaning her complaint ! 

One little wanderer murmurs, '' Only see 

How clear our path looks now ; what makes it so ? 



MARGARET ON THE SHORE. 



77 



In summer-time, how thick it used to be ! 

Where are the leaves and flowers that used to grow ? 
Just see how bare is every single tree !" 

Scornful a voice makes answer, '^ Don't you know 
This is the time o' the year for leaves to fall ?" 

And she, the -white-haired woman at my side. 
Thinks of the pageant of life, its shroud and pall. 

And sighs, as one whose every hope has died, — 
'' Ah ! it is so ; 
This is the time indeed for leaves to go." 

And I, — I look on her and do not sigh ; 

I who, before the summer, met the snow ; 
Who saw my May-day lilies faint and die, — 
My fields and grasses searing mournfully ; 

Before untimely frost my heart's-ease go. 
I, standing lonely in deserted days, 

Where hope, and joy, and love have left me lone, 
Make answer to her in no voiceful ways. 

But deep in spirit, breathe one soundless moan, — 
*' God over all ! 
Is this the time of the year for leaves to fall ?" 



MARGARET ON THE SHORE. 

A SCOTTISH MARTYR. 

O WATERS ! bowing, kneeling at my feet. 
Why come you thus, sad executioners. 
To crave forgiveness ere you rise and drown 
The death-cry on my lips, all earthly pain 



yg MARGARET ON THE SHORE. 

From out a lonely heart for evermore ? 
Come, kneeling if you will, and kiss the feet 
That ever loved to feel your soft caress 
In morning days of life, e'en now so near 
That I have still the leaping heart, have still 
The love of all things beautiful and young. 
But think not that you need to crave my grace. 
My pardon, in the work you soon shall do. 
Rather, I thank you. How should I fear death ? 
One like the Son of God has passed that way, 
And left the darkness luminous. I go 
No blindfold journey, stumbling in the "dark. 
I pass from light to light, from home to home. 
From life to life, from God to very God. 

True, true, I trembled when my earthly judge. 
My brother, — Lord, forgive him ! — cried aloud 
My punishment for crime of heresy : 
'' Chained to a stake, down at low-water mark, 
Until the rising waves extinguish life !" 
Ay, then I shuddered at the brutal voice. 
Ah ! Christ forgive ! I mean — my brother's voice ! 
But now, I tremble not in this bright calm 
(The crowd but watch me from the steep above). 
Alone with mine own peaceful soul, — alone 
With this sweet day, that might be bridal day 
To any queen. It is my bridal day ! 

My bridal day ! No other bridal day 
Has ever, or can ever dawn for me. 
Once I did grieve thereat and sigh to think 
That I must live my life alone, — alone, 
And nigh forgot to smile, remembering 
No other smile was waiting just for me. 



MARGARET ON THE SHORE. 



79 



To-day, I thank my God — I thank my God — 

That I can die my death alone, — alone. 

No other eyes will swim in tears, because 

Mine own are dim at parting. Better thus, 

I doubt, I could have answered loud and clear, 

So that none could deny I held my faith 

Dearer than life, if dearest eyes had watched. 

Or voice had sobbed " my mother" in that throng. 

Nay, rather, though I had not dared to lie, 

I could but then have fallen to my knees 

And sobbed the truth out, in a prayer for help. 

Ay, I am glad to-day in loneliness. 

The tide is coming in,— I feel it throb 

In fuller pulses down about my feet. 

The wind is waking also, and it sweeps 

My long hair back, as when a laughing child 

I bounded on to meet it with a shout. 

Oh, little sister, up above the sky ! 

(I'd think that thou art smiling down on me 

But that thine eyes, as blue as heaven's blue. 

Are lost in that clear glory) dost thou mind 

The times we tumbled on the upland slope. 

Amid the blooming heather all the day ; 

And watched the distant ships loom up and fade 

Along the low sky-line unendingly? 

And how we used to lie awake at night. 

When storms were out, and hear the tide beat in. 

And hear the howling wind, and sometimes hear 

The booming gun sound loud across the roar 

And rush of tempest, telling that a ship 

Was even then in peril deadliest ? 

Last night, awaking in jny prison cell, 



8o MARGARET ON THE SHORE. 

I hearkened in the darkness such a boom 
Sound sudden through the pantings of the storm ; 
And thinking how we used to say our prayer 
To the great Father for all sea-tost folk, 
I paused midway in mine own prayer for help 
And cried, beseeching that His arm of strength 
Would shield and save my suffering brother-men. 
Ay, and so praying, felt a sudden calm 
On mine own soul. I felt how good He is, 
How He must surely guide all weary ones 
Beyond the storm and tempest of this world, — 
The blasphemy of wicked men, — the doubts 
Of good men, — and the sobs and tears of all, — 
Unto the quiet haven of His Rest. 



Ha ! how they shout — the crowd along the steep — 

To see the rising wave break on my knee 

And whelm me in its cold and deathful spray ! 

Thou knowest. Lord, I hate them not. I dare 

To hate no man for whom Thy Son hast died ; 

But I beseech Thee let Thy waters haste 

To beat out life, that I may hear no more 

That fierce, triumphant shriek strike on my brain. 

I pray Thee, Lord, Thou, who didst walk the sea 

To Thy disciples, walk this rising sea 

In light-enwoven raiment, — meet my soul 

That fain would go to meet Thee through the flood, 

Speak to her peace. " Be not afraid." O soul ! 

So hath He spoken even unto thee. 

So wert thou calm when rose this thy last morn. 

When, looking to the heavens, not a cloud 

Of all that former tempest did remain ; 

But on the dazzling blue there showed a cross 



MARGARET ON THE SHORE. gi 

Of light, — pure light, — and lying thereupon. 
The shadow of One resting, — not in pain. 
But calmly resting, as though satisfied. 
Even now it comes and goes, — it cannot fade ! 
Sweet vision ! Oh, draw nearer ! — not to me — 
Not to me only, but that these blind eyes 
May so see light, — may learn of Thee, this day. 
That none who hates his brother can love Thee ; 
That Thou wert happiest in giving most, — 
Blessed in giving Thine own royal Life ! 

Ah ! how they shout again ! Dear Jesus Christ, 
I see Thee, and Thy face shines steadily. 
Unchanging, like that star that waneth not ! 
These waters — leaping — breaking — on my breast 
Hiding Thy pitying skies in shuddering spray, 
Break not upon my soul. Hide not Thy face, — 
Thou art too near to leave me any wish. 
Oh ! I am satisfied, — am satisfied ! 
But teach them. Lord, oh, teach them. Thou art love ; 
Let Thy love's sun shine on their frozen hearts. 
That they may melt, — may glow beneath that glow ; 
Teach them, as Thou didst persecuting Paul, 
The clear unshaded glory of Thy truth ! 
Lead them, as Thou didst Jacob, sore afraid. 
That when they cross the Jabbok cold of death. 
They find no grim, accusing faces turned 
Upon them ; but beneath the sacred Palms, 
Us, who, like them, sin-cleansed for Jesus' sake. 
Shall spring to greet them in glad brother-love 
And fall upon their necks — but not to weep. 

This breathless spray — I fail — oh, dear, Lord Ciirist, 
How near Thou art! — how sweet is death, dear Lord ! 



S2 LOVE AND GRIEF. 

O Saviour, save them all, — I love all — all. — 
Good will to men, — peace on earth, — Peace !• 
Glory to God on high. — Amen — Amen. 



LOVE AND GRIEF. 

Oh, what is Love, and what is Grief? 

We loved, and we were far apart. 
My fields were budding into leaf. 

While hers were dying ; — oh ! my heart ! 
The skies, that over me were clear, 
To her were tempest-swept and drear. 

She suffered, and I knew it not ; 

And my rejoicing made her glad 
In dying hours. Ah, what ? ah, what ? 

Shall I give thanks, or grow more sad, 
In noting that high hardihood 
That missed her evil in my good ? 

I loved her, as the weaker soul 

Can love the stronger, — loved with tears. 
And feeble yearnings towards the whole 

Of love a higher soul enspheres ; 
I loved her with the whole of love 
That could my weaker nature move. 

I loved her, and stretched trembling hands 
To loose the iron bars of Fate 

That cramped her life ; to burst the bands 
And lead her to Fame's temple-gate ; 

To round, to my weak heart's content. 

The measure of her firmament. 



LOVE AND GRIEF. 83 

I loved her, and she asked no more, — 
Nay, asked not that. She was content 

If her great heart all burdens bore ; 
Her wounded feet all briers bent ; 

That I might walk unscathed and strong, 

And ease my heart with breeze and song. 

She loved, as love the great and strong, 

With patient pity, tender ruth ; 
She did not mock ray faltering song. 

She smiled at my impetuous youth ; 
She asked me not to understand 
Her pure devotion, meek and grand. 

Sweet martyr-soul ! I envy not 

Thy clear pre-eminence. ''Mine" and ''Thine," 
In those dear lost days unforgot. 

We never said. Nay, "Ours" the sign. 
So be it still. My heart shall beat 
At every wreath laid at thy feet. 

Thy triumph mine, though I be dust, 

And thou a spirit in High Lands ; 
Although my only wing is trust, 

And thy clear soul all understands ; 
One bond unites — below, above, — 
The depths and heights, — the bond of Love. 

Ah, what is Grief, and what is Love? 

I wept, and I shall weep again ; 
The thoughts of thee all fancies move, — 

The thought of thee, not always pain. 
Lives in my soul, awake, asleep, 
Than peace more high, than grief more deep. 



84 LOVE AND GRIEF. 

That eve — the sun was low i' the West — 

But if I muse I cannot tell 
If clouds were rolled about his rest, 

Or sunshine on the water fell ; — 
I knew not, — for my soul was bright, 
Nor heeded outer dark or light. 

For I had letters in my hand, — 
As messengers from her I loved ; 

And as the light boat left the land, 
And o'er the happy waters moved, 

I bent to read ; — not thought can ken 

The change ere I looked up again ! 

Oh, brave, true heart ! She wrote no word 

To stir a less expectant soul ; 
Spoke only of our hopes deferred. 

Of weakness brooking no control ; 
Had naught of suffering days to tell. 
Nor broke my heart with one farewell. 

Yet when I raised mine eyes once more. 
Strange seemed the river rolling by ; 

Strange the long reach of summer shore, 
Strange the blue arch of God's own sky, — 

And timing to a voiceless bell. 

Slow-tolling, swift oars rose and fell. 

For, ah ! this sorrow was not new ; 

None wrote to bid me doubt or fear ; 
But, though its face I could not view, 

Its dim wings shadowed all the air ; 
Its breathings made my heart to beat 
When' April fields grew green and sweet. 



LOVE AND GRIEF. 

In golden days a sudden cloud 

Would drift between me and the sun ; 

When childhood's mirth rang gayly loud, 
A moment and my laugh was done ; 

When one who knew not sorrow sang 

Of sorrow, all my heart-strings rang. 

And in the gloom of sleep dim dreams 
Passed o'er my spirit faint and far, 

As to beclouded sad eyes seems 
The vision of a distant star; 

To trace their actual semblance, vain ; 

I only knew they boded pain. 

Yet when the spell was half-removed, 
I blamed my fancy. ''Is it well," 

I questioned, ''when no pain is proved. 
On thoughts of unknown grief to dwell ? 

To run toward with willing feet 

A sorrow thou mayst never meet?" 

Thrice foolish heart ! So on that day. 
When fear was far, my grief was near. 

Yet, O Beloved, no need to say 

Dread words a blind heart to prepare ; 

At thy first fear my dread replied. 

And hope and joy together died. 

Ah ! what is Grief, and what is Love ? 

I pray, I agonize, I weep ; 
In pain I breathe, I live, I move. 

Till night falls over and I sleep, 
To wake at last when morn is late. 
Thrice anguished, cold, and desolate. 
8* 



85 



S6 LOVE AND GRIEF. 

I weep, I mourn, I pray when all 
Is done ; thou sleepest as before. 

Such tribute, ah ! how weak, how small ! 
All this in time past mourners bore ; 

Unless I die with thee 'tis naught; 

I do not love thee as I ought. 

Wild thought ! This life is God's, not mine ; 

He gave and He will take away. 
Yet must I see the same sun shine, 

And watch the water's sparkling play? 
Ah ! let me mourn. The morn and eve 
Are of a new day while I grieve. 

The mornings come, the evenings pass, 
The sunshine falls as erst it fell ; 

The winds caress the silken grass. 
The river-eddies whirl and swell ; 

The fields are dreaming in the light, 

The sweet woods stretch beyond the sight. 

Then earth the soul becalmed. ''Dear Heart, 
Thou restest well, or, if God please, 

Thou dwellest, from all pain apart. 

Within His courts, and hast great ease. 

I cannot weep more ; let me gaze 

On this fair field through golden haze." 

Ah ! selfish soul ! The days go on, 

The evenings pass; I'm calm once more. 

Yet through this silence strange and wan 
I know thou sleepest as before. 

The rest of that deep slumber fills 

The quiet of the fields and hills. 



LOVE AND GRIEF. 87 

And on my soul a slumber lies, — 

A lulling calm of perfect rest ; 
And sorrow's wilder tempest dies 

And swells into a golden West, 
And all the wailing brood of pain 
Sobs softly as a falling rain. 

While nearer, more divinely rolls 

A music sweeter than thy voice, — 
A thought that every thought controls, 

A blessedness beyond my choice, — 
Thy memory through my soul doth move 
More strong than pain — all peace above, — 
And this is Grief, and this is Love. 



I dreamed, and saw a mourner sitting still 
In the still room of Death. I could not see 
The veiled face. The Dead lay quietly 
On the white couch of death. The moon did fill 
The chamber with dim phantom light. A thrill 
Of night-wind like a sigh passed mystically 
Through the wide windows, bearing noiselessly 
Drift after drift of midnight snow, until 

The broad floor glittered in new covering. High 
The pictured walls received them, and the bed 
Of death new-shrouded gleamed. Still as the dead, 

Without one breath as audible as a sigh. 
That mourner sat in the pale gleam of night, 
And let the drifts clothe her with death-cold white. 

Ah, well ! this robe of grief, though somewhat pale, 
Is clean, is pure. I will not call it cold ; 
I feel the throbbing, underneath its fold. 



SB LOVE AND GRIEF. 

Of Love's unchanging fire that shall avail 
To reawaken, e'en though Hope should fail, 

Life's higher aspiration. I am bold. 

A mem'ry of thee, still, Beloved, to hold, 
As bright as if no shadow of the vale 

Of shadows e'er had touched thee. Thou shalt be 
No deathly image stirring my heart's ruth, 

But bright, benignant, lovely, as to me 
God gave thee in our glad and innocent youth. 

Thy life has closed with storm. Thy memory 
Shall be a Rainbow, — Light's incarnate truth ! 



* 



In the deep darkness of the summer night. 

When late stars wane and winds of dawn blow chill. 
And with the quiet world thou liest still. 

Oh, friend, in dreams came music for delight 

O'er the dim waters. Timing oars affright 
The listening silence. With thy heart athrill. 
Thou wakest, hearkening, and thou hast thy will, 

For, ere the first smile of the day-dawn bright. 
Thy dearest is with thee, and thou art blest. 

While thou, my heart, that hast in slumber deep 
Taken in calming dreams a little rest, 

Awak'st and criest against deceiving sleep, — 
Never, my own Beloved, nevermore 
Thy voice will greet me on the morning shore. 

Ah, heart ! and hast thou let this doubting age 
Darken or kill thine early trust so sweet ? 
Only in this dim life no more thou' It greet 

Thine own with gladness, for thine heritage 



LOVE AND GRIEF. 



89 



Of life immortal still is thine. The sage 

Who tells thee dust with dust alone shall meet, 
Thou provest a liar, while thou feel'st the beat 

Within thee of the spirit's noble rage 

'Gainst death — as dreamless sleep — 'gainst life as 
breath. 

Ah ! in that starless night when flesh shall fail, 

Spirit shall call to spirit. Thou shalt hail 
The music of her coming o'er seas of Death 

To bid thee welcome. Keep thy purpose clear. 

Hearken, and, as God liveth ! thou shalt hear ! 

Dove, little Dove, that every morning-tide, 
As I sit silent, in this hollow dim 
Moanest and moanest on the hidden limb 
Of some moss-veiled cedar, I have tried 
In vain to find the nest where thou didst hide. 
And see the singer of my heart's own hymn. 
Until this morning, o'er the sunshine-rim 
That binds this hollow, sudden by my side 

Thou flittedst, and I beheld and knew thee fair. 
O soul, when thou within thyself dost hark 
The moaning of an unseen thought, then mark 
With long-enduring patience, — from the air 
Of twilight thou shalt see it sudden spring. 
With morning dew and sunshine on its wing. 

Because there is a God, and He is good*, 

His presence fills the universal heart 

As earthly fields are flooded, — every part 
With universal sunshine. Long withstood 
By cloud, or shadow of the shady wood. 

Each living thing at last must surely start 

Into that glory. Like a golden dart. 



go LOVE AND GRIEF. 

It slays the evil thought, or hope, or mood, 
But, like a golden breath, woos evermore 

The folded buds of good until they bloom. 

Ah, Master ! Can aught blossom in a tomb? 
Ay ; once Thou stoodest in a sealed door 

And called to dust that answered. 

Speak ! sweet Voice, 
And even my heart shall blossom and rejoice. 



I find no rest within the household doors. 

Though I have striven all day, and I would rest. 
A lonely wind is moaning in the west ; 
The darkened sky above the wet earth low'rs j 
I walk alone and lonely the changed shores 
Of this calm river that I love. The crest 
Of the grand cedars o'er, may doubtless breast 
The rage of winds, but down to meet me pours 

A soft, cool, ceaseless breath, through interlaced, 
Invisible boughs above, swathed in a shroud 
Of dim, gray moss, that, like another cloud. 

Moves overhead. Near me are faintly traced 
Palmetto-fans wide open, vines that move 
Through great distorted curves to bloom above. 

Grand Oak ! that, in the strength of summers past, 
Movest to no voice more gentle than the cry 
Of sea-weed moving storms : how fearfully 

These clinging, swathing, death-like mosses cast 

Their darkness over all thy branches vast ! 
All ? Nay. Uplifted still triumphantly 
Into the breath and sunlight of the sky. 

Thy boughs are free and blooming to the last. 
O soul, what matter though all earthward love 



«' THOU SHALT CALL AND I WILL ANSWERS* 91 

Be clothed upon with death before it dies? 
See, where the free, pure wind of heaven cries. 

Where moves the changeless smile of God above, 
Thou hast free growth and blooming undenied 
In that fair glory, — lifted, glorified. 

One of the long-dead spring-times of the past 
Has surely risen from a charmd;d sleep, — 
Sad eyes down-weighted as with slumber deep ; 

Meek hands of slumber on her bosom cast ; 

Deep, mellow tresses rising with the last 

Sad waft of wind, and with a noiseless sweep 
Of billowy garments that their freshness keep, 

And musk of ghostly roses still hold fast ! — 

The vision wakes; it smiles, drifts toward me down 

Through wonderful cloud distances ! Ah ! sure. 

No simple, sweet new-comer could so lure 

Such Hope and Fancy forth to play, and drown 

The mournful present with a silvery glow 

From the bright, sunken sun of long ago. 



*'THOU SHALT CALL AND I WILL 
ANSWER THEE." 

(job XIV. 15.) 

Lord, wilt Thou call? Lord, wilt Thou call for me? 

I seem forgot, — like dead men, out of mind. 
The world, with all its mirth and misery, 

Sweeps past me, heedless as the heedless wind. 



92 " THOU SHALT CALL AND I WILL ANSWER.'' 

Although I cry to it, it will not hear ; 

Though I stretch trembling hands, it will not heed. 
None call for me in tones of love or cheer ; 

Of me and of my work it hath no need. 

Wealth passes, but she never looks this way ; 

Prosperity makes haste her steps to track ; 
Joy runneth after, laughing all the day ; 

They pass, they linger not, nor e'er look back. 

Friendship once called in accents clear and low, 
I answered, and sprang forth to clasp her hand ; 

One glided 'twixt us, gayly whispering, *' No, 

But come with me." She obeyed the light com- 
mand. 

Love, too, hath passed, — I think, I cannot tell. 

One in a starry morn, white-clothed and pure. 
Passed me in sighing. I remember well 

The aspect, but the name I hold not sure. 

Lord, wilt Thou call for such an one as I? 

Thou sittest in the heavens, and all are Thine ; 
Thou hast, we know, a book. Remembrance y nigh. 

Among those golden names wilt Thou call mine ? 

Call from the desolation of my night — 

Where hope is faint, where spirit daily dies — 

Up to the satisfying of Thy light. 
Up to the sacred palms of Paradise ? 

Lord, Lord, oh, be not wroth if Thou shouldst call 
And I stand dumb, incredulous, and be 

So dazed with light that I shall faint and fall. 
And, save for weeping, cannot answer Thee. 



A TRIBUTE. 93 



A TRIBUTE 

TO ONE OF THE OCEAN INLETS ON THE GEORGIA COAST. 

A POET in the days gone by 

Sang to his "winsome marrow" 
About the "bonny braes," the sky 

Of fair and classic Yarrow ; 
Why may not I, an unknown wight, 

Of you, O unknown River ! 
Some gentle memory recite, — 

Some happy curve or quiver ? 

You make no classic meadows green 

In coming or in going ; 
No poet-eyes have ever seen 

Your daily ebb and flowing; 
But yet your beauty glows and yearns 

With all its sweet gradation, 
As if a Wordsworth or a Burns 

Awaited inspiration. 

You come through many a lonely mile, 

A wanderer from the ocean, 
To watch and ward this little isle 

With knighthood's pure devotion ; 
You bear to her unnumbered gifts 

Through all the year's unfolding ; 
Your pliant pausings and your drifts 

Her very shores are moulding. 
9 



94 



A TRIBUTE. 

Sea-winds pursue your crystal path 

And breathe their bahn above her, 
Storms spend afar on you their wrath, 

On her their softest shower. 
How often have we marked the alarm 

That ocean agitated, 
But by the radiant after-calm 

That all her air elated ! 

You draw the sea-gull from the sea 

To rest among her cedars, 
Your waters tempt unceasingly 

Great flocks of twittering feeders ; 
And in the morn and eve of spring 

A thousand new-born sparrows 
Their fairy bells ecstatic ring 

Across your sunny narrows. 

The wild duck stems your tiny tides, 

The plover skims your waters. 
The bittern on your margins hides 

Her elfish sons and daughters. 
When eve in red and amber bars 

Repeats the sunset's story, 
Long lines of cranes like daylight stars 

Fade in the western glory. 

Yet of all gifts or grace you bear 

Your sweet betrothed in duty, 
This, sure, the highest and most dear. 

Your own celestial beauty ! — 
A beauty oft by human hearts 

But little felt or heeded, 
Unglorified by poet arts. 

Yet sometimes deeply needed. 



A TRIBUTE. 95 

The Indian stood where now I stand, 

And watched with eyes unquailing 
The sudden, dazzling morn expand, 

Its splendors o'er you trailing; 
He saw that glory fade and die. 

And, dreaming of his nation, 
To the Great Spirit raised on high 

Wild eyes of adoration. 

How many childish tongues have called 

Your echoes wild and knowing ! 
How many bridal hearts enthralled 

Made music of your flowing ! 
How many eyes have turned in vain, 

Through tears that mocked their vision, 
To see you ere the fields they gain, 

Where flow the founts Elysian ! 

To me your inmost depths disclose 

A revelation tender ; 
A gulf-stream of remembrance flows 

Through all your changeful splendor ; 
And with your freight of loss, and tears, 

And love, O solemn River ! 
You must flow on through all the years 

That make my life's forever. 



96 SHAPED TO MUSIC— A SUNDAY-CHILD. 



SHAPED TO MUSIC. 

O Hope ! if indeed thou be a star, 

Shine now, for the day is done ; 
Faint, chill, breathe the night winds o'er the bar. 

Light dies with the dying sun. 

O Hope ! if indeed thou be a star. 

Sink not with the sinking moon ; 
Shine on, when no light, thy light can mar, — 

On — on, through the night's sad noon. 

O Hope ! if indeed thou be a star, 
Unstayed through the depths above. 

Lead us, as the Wise were led afar. 
Safe home to the Shrine of Love. 



A SUNDAY-CHILD. 

"There is yet Romance in the world; to be sure, nobody but 
Sunday-children ever meet it." — Auerbach. 

'^Lilian, little Lilian, 

Where are you going, child?" 
The winds of morn on the ocean born 

Are blowing high and wild. 

The morning star is glittering 

Still on the verge of the sky ; 
With its sea-wind whirl and its mists of pearl, 

'Tis an hour of mystery. • 



A SUNDAY-CHILD. 97 

"Lilian, little Lilian, 

Where are you going, child?" 
She lifts her eyes so strangely wise, 

And her voice is gay and wild. 

"I am going to find the fairies 

There in that dark old wood ; 
Some may be bad, and some may be mad, 

But some are dainty and good. 

'' Some are dressed in cobweb. 

With a dragon-fly wing for a plume ; 

Some are gay as a field in May, — 
Blossoms always in bloom. 

''Some are gallant and saucy. 

Flitting about in all weathers, 
Jacket of green, cap of red sheen, 

Tuft of the white owl's feathers. 

" Truly ! I read in a book. 

And now I am going to see ; 
Won't they flutter, and won't they mutter, 

When they catch sight of me?" 

"Lilian, little Lilian, • 

Neither on woodland nor lawn 
Will you find a trace of a fairy face ; 

The fairies are dead and gone." 

Sad is the child-face growing. 

But it brightens again like May : 
" Well, you know, let the fairies go ; 

The angels always stay ! 
9* 



98 WHAT THE SPRITE SANG TO THE MAGNOLIA. 

''I have heard them murmur, murmur 

Above in a windy day ; 
I have seen them pass o'er the bending grass, 

When a moonbeam struck that way. 

^'They live in the deep, green wood, 

And they love those children all. 
Who do not fear, but wait to hear 

The music of their call." 

She looks at me, half doubting 

If I will understand ; 
Her eyes are wild and soft and mild. 

Her voice is sweet and bland. 

Lilian, little Lilian, 

I pray with my brow to the sod. 
That an angel mild may lead thee, child. 

To thy home in the City of God. 



WHAT THE SPRITE SANG TO THE 
MAGNOLIA. 

Chalice, my palace. 

My palace of cream ! 
Oh, milky-white walls, 

In whose shadows I dream ! 

Gleam-bell, my dream-dell, 

So high in air swung ! 
Moon of the midnight 

Of leaves 'round you hung. 



THE DAISY— AFTER DEATH. 

Whorl-roof, so pearl-proof 
To night's dropping dews ! 

Now close furl around me 
The shelter I choose. 

Rare sweet and air fleet 
Your wealth of perfume, 

Far clouding with fragrance 
This tropic night's gloom. 



99 



THE DAISY. 



Oh, my love is like a daisy, 
So bonny and so sweet ! 

All grasses seem to love her, 

Clouds break and smile above her. 

From early morning hazy 

Through all the day hours fleet. 

Oh, my love is like a daisy, 

So simple and so fair ; 
To none can I compare her, 
I'll on my bosom wear her, 
And call the scoffer crazy 

Who'd try to flout her there. 



AFTER DEATH. 

We want a wind-flower stainless as this hand, — 
The innocent bloom that passes with a breath 
Untainted, a white dream 'twixt life and death ; 

We want a wind-flower stainless as this hand 
To rest within its hold. 



lOO THE GIFT OF GRIEF. 

We want a rose as calm as this still brow, — 
A rose unstirred by any passing breeze, 
Hid deep in shadow under dim, cool trees ; 

We want a rose as calm as this still brow 
To lay beside it now. 

We want a lily white as this pure heart, — 
A lily one hour old, without a stain 
Or touch of bird or bee, of dew or rain ; 

We want a lily pure as this pure heart, — 
Oh, God, this heart is cold I 



THE GIFT OF GRIEF. 

There is some fruit upon the tree of life 

Too high for lifted hands to reach, too sound 
For gentle breeze to waft it to the ground ; 

But when the storm-winds gather as to strife, 
And clouds are dark, the golden prize will fall. 

And one benighted in a tropic wood 

Will find grand blossoms where in daylight stood 

Dry, withered husks. 

In sorrow's darkened thrall 
Let not the faithful heart seem to rejoice. 

Has there ne'er come to you in the soul's night, 
As to the seer of old, an angel's voice. 

Saying, "Arise and eat," and in the might 
Of that celestial food you onward trod 
Up the steep way toward the Mount of God ? 



IMMORTAL. loi 



IMMORTAL. 



What is there in the fragrance of this day — 
This winter day, half tender and half wild, 

That from the gloom of years long passed away 
Bringest thee now so near me, little child? 

Why must I dream of thee, and, waked in vain. 

Still fall to dreaming of thee once again ? 

Oh, little playmate of forgotten days ! 

One memory rises with thee strangely sweet : 
A garden-wilderness with tangled ways. 

We two with busy hands and flying feet 
Gathering its glories, while the sunset rayed 
Its long-drawn lights between the cedars' shade. 

Hast thou a thought in God's great Garden close 
Of that past rapture, that most dear delight ? 

Does sight of Eden violet or rose 

Recall to thee those blossoms earthly-bright ? 

Sunned in a Radiance that can never fade, 

Oh, dream'st thou of that sunset's mingled shade? 

Thou gavest thy best-loved blossoms then to me ; 

No single flower was deep enough to hold 
Thy heart's great overflow of love. To thee 

I w^as no child of simple earthly mould ; 
Rather, I was an answering spirit free, — 
A part of thy life's innocent ecstasy. 

Ay, more than that, for perfect love must be 
In this low world, not joy alone, but pain. 

God taught thee early that sublime decree, 

And from that double strength, mine was the gain ; 



I02 IMMORTAL. 

Two only, here have given me perfect love, 
And both have left me for the life above. 

When I lay sick and drooping, thou didst haste 
To kiss me back to life in death's despite, 

And when the death that left me, thee embraced. 
Thou in unchildlike strength didst scorn affright, 

But in that grand transition, changeless still, 

Sent me undying love, death could not chill. 

But that is past, — but that is long ago, — 
I was a child when thou wert angel-grown ; 

Why with my musings dost thou mingle so ? 
In that dead past, why live and breathe alone ? 

Dost thou still think of me, yet changed in naught. 

And thus in me awaken answering thought ? 

What art thou now to me, O thou saint-child ? 

Thou art no more a semblance to my mind, 
Comest no shape seraphically mild. 

No angel, — angel-wise, yet human-kind. 
To call thy face in vision were as vain. 
As bid these sweet dust-flowers bloom again. 

Thou art a water-shadow faint and clear, 
That plays in life across life's dim expanse ; 

Thou art a melody that none can hear. 
Lulling the spirit into dreamy trance \ 

Thou art a perfect soul, that touching mine, 

Wakes it to life and thought and love divine. 

Sweet light, play on, until in such commune 
My darkness give thee back an answering glow ; 

Sweet music, breathe, until thou dost attune 
Discordant life to thy melodious flow ; 



GENIUS. 



103 



Sweet soul, be near, till pain and anguish cease, 
And I may greet thee in the Calm of Peace. 

Good cannot die ; each little word of Thine, 
O Christ, my God, within Thy world must stay. 

Pure love enkindled by a touch divine. 

Must live though heaven and earth should pass away. 

Fear not the ages, child-soul pure and free. 

Thou art a part of God's Eternity. 



GENIUS. 



In the Long Ago there lived a lady bright, 

Who trod this green old earth with lighter tread, 
Who wore a softer splendor on her head. 

And sweeter sang than other women might ; 

And buried in the laces at her white, 

Warm, glorious throat, there showed a Gem, 'twas 

said. 
That from its hiding-place, strange lustre shed. 

How was it shaped ? A star gives wondrous light. 

Some said it was a star, but others said 
*' She that is young and knows not earthly loss 
Wears on her breast Hope's anchor." ''Worldly 
dross/' 

Some scoffed. *' Perhaps, a serpent !" Who denied? 

But those who lingered, weeping, ere she died. 
Sobbed, ''On her breast she wore a sacred cross." 



VERSES BY E. A. G. C. 



" It is not growing like a tree 
In bullc doth make one better be, 
Or standing long an oak three hundred year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear. 
A Lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it droop and die that night, — 
It was the plant, the flower of light," 



lo 105 



NOTE. 



All of the verses of this division were written in early youth. Before 
they could reach the public eye, the correcting hand that might have 
moulded them into a shape more worthy the thought that inspired 
them, had lain aside the pen forever. — J. C. 



1 06 



IN MEMORIAM. 

By the wind o' the spirit that stirred her hair, 
By the passion of hope and the deep despair, 
By the burning seed and the hand to sow it, 
By the grace of God, a Poet. 

By the speech, now lark, now nightingale ; 
By the brow, prophetic thought made pale ; 
By the parted lips and their low-breathed throng 
Of fancies, quick with the pulse of song ; 
By the strength to love the true and know it. 
By the grace of God, a Poet. 

By the eyes, like a star-pierced midnight deep. 
That the pale face lit 'twixt the parted sweep 
Of the raven hair, through whose drifts they shone 
Like steady beacons o'er dark seas lone ; 
By a soul whose veil was burned to show it. 
By the grace of God, a Poet. 

(Did she enter before her footfall, where 
That low-ceiled roof confined the air ? 
By that sense of muffled thunder below it, 
By the grace of God, a Poet.) 

By a hope fast rescued out of the deep, 
By a faith whose fixed glance knew no sleep, 
By a love that dauntless-eyed could keep 
Death's fear at bay, and meet and know it 
As Life, — God's crowned Poet. 

107 



SEA-SONG. 

Oh, most exquisite Sea ! 
The rainbow touch of spring is on thy waves 
With varied hues as blossom-crested graves ; 

They sing soft songs to thee. 

Thou foldest them to sleep, 
O gentlest mother, and thy whispering, 
Beneath the fairest heaven of the spring. 

Steals o'er thy crystal breast. 

And when comes on the night 
Thou wilt bedeck their breasts with gems, O Sea ; 
The stars, I know, do half belong to thee ; 

God made thee *'dark and bright." 

To the faint melody 
Which is enwoven with the diamond spray — 
Thine own bright, crowning circlet, sea, alway — 

The winds sigh tenderly. 

And the sweet heaven above, 
Opening its azure arms all radiantly. 
Lays its bright head upon thy breast, O Sea, 

And there breathes forth its love. 

All things do love thee, Sea ; 
Thou hast a mystic charm, and thy deep tone 
Seems moaning for the desolate and lone. 

Whose heart-gems are with thee. 

10* 109 



no 



TO 

Thou minglest in my dreams ; 
I hear thy sweet voice when the moon is low ; 
On thy broad breast a glory seems to flow ; 

From heaven's high court it streams. 

And from that sparkling gold, 
A rainbow bridge is flashing wondrously, 
And angels tread thy waters, sleeping Sea, 

As Jesus did of old. 

And, oh, most tenderly 
They call, and answer spirits clothed in white, 
And bear them upward to the Inner Light 

From thy still waves, O Sea. 



TO 



Drop your curls, my beauty. 

Low as the dying sun 
Drops on the white breast of the sky, 

When the day's gold thread is spun. 
Drop your curls, my beauty. 

Over the sheltered eye. 
Over a heart of finer gold, 

And a breast, warm, white, like the sky. 

In the first days, my beauty. 

Ere the warm world had grown cold. 
In the first days, my beauty, 

God wrought the veil of gold. 



TWILIGHT VISITINGS. m 

And in the old Garden, Beauty, 

What a fine light was shed 
From the great curls of the clusters 

On Mother Eve's small head ! 

Suppose that under the myrtles 

She moved, too fair for sight, 
And in high branches of blossom 

Entangled those threads of light ! 
Suppose in the days of sorrow. 

When the Gates were shut, and the Seas 
Whose waves were Death, had smote her. 

She rent gold curls like these ! 

How many heads that are fallen. 

And are nothing but mouldering sands, 
Have gloried in great, gold tresses 

Like these I hold in my hands ! 
Drop your curls, my beauty. 

Lay the fine gold apart. 
Till the head, weighed down by its splendor. 

Shall fall upon my heart. 



TWILIGHT VISITINGS. 

In my wintry loneliness. 

In this dim, half-hidden world, 

Dream I now of fond caress, 
Shining hair in sunshine curled. 

Far upon the sea, out yonder. 

Through the evening's dimming gold, 



112 TWILIGHT VISITING S. 

One white sail oft seems to wander, 

While the tinted clouds unfold. 
Nearer still it comes, and nearer, 

Lightening every wave the while, 
And I know the Barque doth bear her 

To me from the Blessed Isle. 
Once again her smile is on me. 

Gladdening all my soul within ; 
Ah ! how oft that smile hath won me 

From the weary world of sin ! 
Wondrous smile ! O heart, what is it ? 

What dear charm so sweetly given ! 
For I feel at each brief visit. 

That its spell half opens heaven. 
Ah ! 'tis gone. The white sail glistens 

Far upon the melting sea, 
While my charmed spirit listens 

To soft, floating melody. 
She has bidden me farewell. 

Night's dark curtain shuts the whole. 
While a soft-toned silvery bell 

Tolls the Vesper of the soul. 
Hour of heaven ! — twilight greeting — 

Memory counts these jewels o'er 
When the holy bliss of meeting 

Throbs within my heart no more. 



AT SUNSET. 113 



AT SUNSET. 

Over the fields, growing dim and gray, 
I see them silently ride away 
Into the sunset silently, 
And she turns her head to look back at me. 
Against the sunset, fading and fair, 
Faintly glimmers her long, gold hair ; 
The little pale face turns back to me, — 
Looks over her shoulder silently. 

Yes, — in a moment it fades away. 

Into the mists it fades away, — 

The picture that comes with the dying day. 

The little pale face turned back to me, 

The grave eyes watching silently. 

Ah ! no face so pale and fair 
Blossoms in any earthly air ; 
But when it is faded out of sight. 
When it seems lost in the last faint light, 
It is no farther away from me ; 
Still it is watching silently. 
Living, we lose the forms most dear ; 
Dead, they linger forever near. 



114 



HOLL Y. 



HOLLY. 

With flame within and frost without, 
And windy fields aringing, 

Came Michaelmas from up the snow 
And set the glad land singing. 

A feast of light grew in the dark, 

And we in morning folly 
Had turned the garden inside out 

And robbed the park of holly. 

Oh ! how there glistened on the wall 
The shining holly-berries ! 

Oh ! how there glistened in and out 
The bower hung with cherries ! 

Forswear the Druid mistletoe 

And all its heathen folly ; 
O love, O love, I kissed you first 

Beneath a branch of holly. 

And so you struggled in the leaves, 

pretty little rover, 

And looked so fair among the leaves, 

1 kissed you three times over. 

And kissed you me, and grew to be 

A balm for melancholy. 
All hail the Saint of Michaelmas ! 

All hail the holy holly ! 



SHADOWS. 115 



SHADOWS. 

Oh, evening shadows ! dim and tranced and weary, 

With power to weep, your tears 
Fall on my bowed head, watching cold and dreary 

The path your long tread wears. 
Till in a sudden glory of new moonlight 

Ye are lost falteringly. 
Oh, not the mystic beauty of the June light 

Rainbowed upon the sea, 
The flower-sweet, golden essence of the June light. 

Lingers so lovingly. 

Oh, evening shadows ! silently and quaintly 

Ye trod the path I tread, 
And your hushed tears fell wearily and faintly, 

As mourning one long dead. 
And so I dream that sometimes, gently bending, 

Like priests o'er altar- wave. 
Above white moonbeams long and cold descending, 

Ye weep beside her grave ; 
Oh, gently, sweet, sweet shadows, gently bending. 

Ye weep beside her grave. 

Oh, evening shadows ! beautiful and saintly, — 

Dear pilgrims from that shrine 
Where God's sweet flowers bloom in a dream-light 
faintly. 

And God's own stars o'ershine; 
The wondrous holy tears ye shed, not faded. 

When morn's red wave upcurls, 



Il6 DEATH. 

In your dark, mournful tresses shall be braided, - 

Wreaths of eternal pearls, 
Shining by moon- or star-light all unaided, 

Fair, faint, fair, mystic pearls. 



DEATH. 



Oh, gentle Death ! 
Coming into the golden blue of noon. 
Or rising mist-like to the pallid moon, 

Or, with faint, flowing breath, 
Mingling in the twilight vesper dim. 
Whispering the sad amen to life's long hymn. 

Oh, gentle, gentle Death ! 

Thine eyes, like day-spent stars. 
Hiding behind long-falling clouds, white lidden. 
Trembling as though the tear-drops, all unbidden, 

Sought to pass those snow-bars ; 
Thy pale hair, bound with wreathed immortelle, 
Thy voice the liquid silver of a bell 

Under the midnight stars. 

Thy soft, fair-moulded hands, 
That smooth so often weary brows to rest, 
All lightly lying on thy quiet breast. 
Like twin sea-shells upon some white sea strands, 

Oh, gentle, gentle Death ! 



''PLUIE DES FERLESr 117 

Oh, gentle Death ! 
In thy meek-folded hands thou seemst to bear 
Deep solace for all mortal grief and care, — 

The wing of faith. 
But love is held in higher hands than thine, 
So lookst thy face too sad to be divine, 

Oh, gentle Death ! 

The world's vain breath 
May mock thee in its pride, yet must it pray thee, 
Yet must it cease before thee and obey thee. 

Oh, gentle Death ! 



^'PLUIE DES PERLES." 

Beautiful head, like a sun-kissed leaflet bending, 

Bathed with the tide of song-embalmed air, — 
Crowned with a radiant crown made up of the blending 

Of pearls in the golden threads of mystic hair ; 
Delicate cheek with a faint rose-bloom caressing 

The maiden snow that covers the wonderful brow ; 
Fairy, pink-tinted fingers now daintily pressing 

The color into the cheek and freeing it now; 
'Neath the low golden sweep of the eye-lash curtain 

A mystical, beautiful azure arch uprears, — 
Half-hidden gems, with intent most sweetly uncertain, 

Break their bright fetters ! Look at them, look at 
their tears ! 
Oh, young, holy heart, so wondrous pure and saintly. 

Eyes of joy and hope all bright with dew, 

II 



ji8 »PLUIE DBS PERLESr 

Arch of smiles so radiant sweet, and quaintly 

This melting rainbow-mist now glimmering through ; 
Soft the music breathes, and with it breathing. 

By memory's voice the love-words are respoken, — 
Sweet angels, now invisibly round her wreathing, 

Kind angels, let not this beautiful spell be broken. 
For an unearthly light is weaving round her, 

A new ecstatic light her young brow wears. 
The strange, strong, mystical thrall of love has bound 
her. 

And gemming that golden glory fall her tears ? 

Oh, fair head ! like a broken lily falling 

Upon the billowy stream of sorrowful love, — 
Now its sovereign chain but half enthralling 

The spirit, whose meek, clear eyes are turned 
above, — 
An angel presence enlightens all the chamber. 

An angel hand soothes the lone watcher's brow. 
And angel steps fall in the gloom like amber 

Crystally clear of sound. She is dying now, — 
Half of heaven seems all unveiled above her. 

Weaving its glories about her soul's calm deep. 
Oh, blessed spirit ! the holy angels love her, — 

Gently they minister unto her, — why should she 
weep? 
There is a veil, earth-woven, half concealing 

That glory in which woman's clear soul shines; 
Yet the death-angel, with tender hands revealing 

The mystic temple, and all its beautiful shrines. 
Shows her what God hath made after His own beauty, — 

Lowly pity and snowy virtue and peace ; 
And in a mailed garb, all-conquering duty, 

Whose holy warfare not with earth doth cease, — 



COMING OF THE MAY. 

And golden love, with its mystic fetters linking 

The gentle heart as near to earth as heaven. 
Still weeps she while the low sun sinking, 

Long gazes at her through the haze of even, — 
Oh, tender angels, gather these wonderful tears, 

Out of her pity and joy and great love given. 
And make of them the circlet that she wears 

When she shall touch the golden harp in heaven. 



119 



COMING OF THE MAY. 

Ring, bells, ring ! and sing, birds, singj, 

O lark, that sphinx-like crieth to greet the day. 

Sing at the edge o' the nest ! — she cometh whom you 
love best, 
With arms full of all flowers, the May, the May ! 

Ring, bells, ring ! and sing, birds, sing ! 

Amid the waving grass white lambs do play ; 
Down where the waters flow, great purple pansies 
grow,— 

Go, bind your brows, and forth to meet the May ! 

Swathed in white drifts of flowers, there lie the dream- 
ing Hours, — 
On all the fields the fluttering sun-flecks play, — 
Warm rains come down by night, scarce veiling the 
moon's light. 
Ah ! sweet, ah ! sweet ! the moon that shines in 
May. 



I20 THE DEATH OF A NOBLE CAUSE. 

The waving, waving boughs, these be the summer 
snows, 
These starry shapes that float on the wind away, — 
There be strange, glimmering things that pass on rain- 
bow wings. 
With Elfin-horns that blow the tunes of May. 

In deepest forest glades these light the pleasant shades, — 

You cannot hear their tread, though still the day, — 

The light across their wings, shimmers across dim 

springs. 

And the little waves do laugh at the spirits of the 

May. 

Oh, ring, bells, ring ! and sing, birds, sing ! 

Yon larks and thrushes, robins and red-coats gay. 
Perch on her flowery crest, twitter about her breast. 

And sing her a song of love, — the maiden May ! 



THE DEATH OF A NOBLE CAUSE. 

Put out the lights at midnight, about the clouded bier,- 

Weep, watcher, silently ! 
Let darkness slowly cover the light of golden hair, 

Flowing downward like the sea. 
Let the cruel stains of blood on breast and brow 

Be washed away in tears ; 
Lay beside her that bright sword, glorious even now 

With the light of other years. 



THE DEATH OF A NOBLE CAUSE, 121 

Hark ! the death-bell speaketh sadly through the still, 
chill air, 
Speaketh sadly, one, two, three, — 
See, the snow of death has frozen strangely on her hair, 

Buds, dying timelessly. 
Should she speak now, though her voice were faint and 
light. 
It would stir us like a song ! 
Should she lift her eyes, though tears might dim their 
light. 
Ours would burn with courage strong ! 

Ah ! but still, she lies, the mailed maid, with idle 
yellow hair 
Creeping through her helmet cleft, — 
With one little, white bay-flower, nestling on her bosom 
fair. 
The last, her glory left. 
Put out the lamps, — all lamps but one, — beside the 
lonely bier. 
But say to him who weepeth, 
A voice is whispering, sighing, through the darkness of 
the air, 
'*She is not dead, but sleepeth." 



II' 



122 AN INVOCATION. 



AN INVOCATION 

TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Sweet singer, I am very sad to-day ; 

My dimmed eye closes, my heart faileth me, 
Fain from thy smile, I'd gather one hope-ray. 

Through clouds thy star-eyes still burn steadily ; 
Thou hast done much to elevate the name. 

The weak and lowly name of womanhood. 
All bright and glowing is thy mighty fame ; 

Long on that lofty summit hast thou stood. 
See ! I, the feeblest one, who dares to call 

Thee sister, now turn tremblingly to thee. 
Oh, let thine accents through the distance, fall 

Upon my wounded heart, all tenderly. 
Oft have I, dreaming music, tried to sing, 

And, singing, soar into a clime of light. 
Yet ever fell, with torn and bleeding wing. 

Back to the shadows of this world's cold night. 
Sweet singer, I am weak and weary now ; 

My voice is hushed, my heart is full of woe ; 
Oh, lay thy wondrous hand upon my brow, 

And kiss away these bitter tears that flow. 
Sweet singer ! in the darkness of despair, 

Let one hope-promise linger cheeringly ; 
And though I now look onward, full of fear, 

Say that the future yet may shine for me. 
Say that my lips, now quivering and weak. 

Shall gather strength and vigor once again. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW. 



123 



And that the timid words that I may speak, 

Shall find true favor in the eyes of men. 
If Fate decrees the darkening of my morn, 

Oh, say a glow divine may touch my even, 
As many a sun that has in tears been born 

Sinks with a golden glory into heaven. 
Sweet singer, chide me not because I crave 

A place among the mighty ones like thee, 
A little light about my woman's grave. 

One wandering leaf from fame's outspreading tree. 
Thou knowest, who hast felt the ecstatic thrill 

For some great strain murmured half-consciously ; 
Thou knowest the wild, yearning hopes that fill 

The heart once touched by burning poesy. 
Then turn not from my lowly, faltering strain ; 

Scatter a little hope upon my way. 
Sweet singer, soothe the throbbing of my brain ; 

Whisper the coming of a brighter day. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW. 

The spring is dreaming to-day, Annie, 

Her most delicious dream, 
And my heart would take its way, Annie, 

Through paths of flower and stream. 
But a veiling, faint mist through, Annie, 

I see your eyes shine cold, 
For you pass into the new, Annie, 

While I am lost in the old. 



124 -^^^ ^^^ ^^^ '^H^ NEW. 

Floating out on the billowy air, Annie, 

Your voice is woven in song, 
And in shade and in sunshine, Annie, 

Its music lingers long. 
But I care not how soon it die, Annie, 

Into the waning gold. 
For though under the old, dear sky, Annie, 

It is not the song of the old. 

But, oh, by the shining wave, Annie, 

When the morning splendor falls. 
We both know a blossoming grave, Annie, 

Close by the old Home walls ; 
And we both know a smile that is fled, Annie, 

And we've kissed the glorious gold 
That crowned a radiant head, Annie, 

In days that we now call old. 

We have followed fairy feet, Annie, 

Through many a beautiful way. 
And listened a voice, how sweet, Annie, 

In its changeful, silvery play. 
Ah ! the loving glance and true, Annie, 

And the heart of purest gold ; 
We shall never find in the new, Annie, 

All we have lost in the old. 

We have bidden the dead farewell, you say ; 

That long kiss on the brow. 
In the strange, cold light of that awful day. 

Meant that ; and surely, now 
She, who has hosts of angel friends, 

Needs not our earth-love cold ; 
Our paths in new light and shade wend, — 

We must take the new for the old. 



SIGHING FOR LEAVES. 125 

Annie, though one God made us two, 

He gave you a different heart, 
And, while you turn with smiles to the new, 

From the old I cannot part. 
Rather, I'll walk alone, Annie, 

Treading the dream-path cold, 
And with new tears make moan, Annie, 

For the dear lost love of old. 

For all the beautiful days, Annie, 

That now can come no more. 
When her smile was in our ways, Annie, 

That now shines faintly o'er. 
The hand that hither drew, Annie, 

My spirit still shall hold ! 
Yet treading the path that is new, Annie, 

Oh, love me witklove that is old ! 



SIGHING FOR LEAVES. 

The naked trees are wringing their hands, 

And tossing their arms and crying ; 
They say, " We are left all out in the cold. 

And the hard rain comes ; we are dying. 
The cold rain falls as heavy as stones. 

The wind goes over us sighing ; 
The cruel moon comes up in the sky, 

And looks upon us dying ! 
God clothes the grass on the breast of the earth, 

God makes the smallest flowers, 



126 SIGHING FOR LEAVES. 

While we, His older children, stand 

Bare in the stormy showers. 
Now, under our battered limbs we see 

A violet's head upgrowing, 
And meshes of grass keep the rain from its face. 

And shield it from fierce winds blowing. 
And, farther away, a daisy just born 

Is feebly winking its eyes 
At the first sweet light that comes to its sight 

Out of the opening skies. 
We know a merry time ago, 

When our blossoming boughs were full. 
And the sweet air kissed us out of the South, 

Because we were beautiful. 
And now, when we have grown nearer to heaven. 

We hold out our hands and cry, — 
Oh, when will the young leaves come like birds 

And perch on us out of the' sky?" 
Ah ! pleasant it is to be full of leaves. 

Oh, ye of the naked hearts. 
Ye know how bitter the cold rain smites, 

And how bitter the hard rain smarts ! 
But yet we wait for the murmuring sound 

Of branches, soft as the air, 
And the fragrant lips of the bridal South 

To kiss us, because we are fair. 
Ah ! yet we wait for the crown of our lives — 

We wait with lifted eyes. 
And we dream in our holier hearts, that God 

Is weaving it up in the skies. 



SONG. 



127 



SONG. 

If I sing, my Love, when the night is bare, 

And the desert east wind cries. 
When my heart is bitter and full of tears. 

And grief has closed my eyes. 

If I sing, my love, when the moon is up. 

With a shout of hearty glee. 
When God makes the world look beautiful. 

Even to poor hearts like me. 

If I sing, my Love, when the moon falls dead 

Over the sinking earth. 
And the sky is weary with heavy clouds 

That give its cold rains birth. 



t)' 



If I sing, O Love, with a heavy heart, 

Or in peace exultingly ; 
If I sing in my woe, if I sing in my hope. 

Ah ! what is my song to thee ? 

All day I long for a sight of thine eyes, 

I long till my heart is sore ; 
One moment thou comest, and while I gaze 

The glory is no more. 

Ah ! why did God build thy way so high. 
And dig mine deep in the sod ? 

Ah, why ? For the bitter love of thee 
My heart cries out against God. 



128 GOOD-NIGHT, 

But yet will I sing, O Love, O Love, 
In the dimness heavy and numb, 

And when my song is not of thee. 
Then may my lips grow dumb ! 



GOOD-NIGHT. 



Oh, kiss it twice and thrice, dear love, before we lay 
it by. 

Our battle-flag, whose star cross made a glory in the 
sky ! 

Oh, kiss it for the drops of blood that sanctify its 
light ! 

Oh, kiss it for the dear boy's sake ! Old flag ! good- 
night, good-night ! 

For Jamie at Manassas, and Willie in the snow, 

That fell from heaven for him, he was so beautiful, you 

know ! 
That fell from heaven to shroud him, and to make 

about his brow 
That fair wreath of immortelles, that we can dream of 

now j 
That fell upon his breast, and the still hands folded 

there. 
And turned to tender tears amid the beauty of his 

hair. 

Then Hal at Chickamauga, our Hal, the hazel-eyed. 
The star of all our hope, Hal, the pride of all our 
pride ; 



GOOD-NIGHT. 



129 



The day-heart golden in its truth, the childlike, change- 
less faith. 

The spirit shown half scornful in the smile that lit his 
death. 

Oh, Hal, dear Hal, the golden life poured out upon 
the sod, 

In spite of that faint scorning was golden still to God. 

Then Charlie in the prison, sending home a sad ''good- 

by," 
And fancying for flag-stars, the stars up in the sky ; 
And cheering on the men with his poor fevered mouth. 
Then falling back and dying, his face turned to the 

South. 

Then Sam at Shiloh, — our flag, to mantle him, 

Lain down between the hill-sides, among the shadows 

dim \ 
And Johnnie, with his soldier cap just lifted from his 

head, 
And the triumph cry half uttered, — upon Fort Wagner 

— dead ! 
And Lou at Missionary Ridge, by comrade hands low 

laid. 
And poor Fred at Atlanta, when the stars began to fade. 

They were all our dear friends. Love, we knew their 

eyes and tread. 
And we think of them as beautiful, as if they were not 

dead ; 
Their voices come upon us, making music in the air. 
And we turn to see the old smile, and the light upon 

the hair. 

12 



130 ''AT THE GATE OF THE TEMPLES 

How sad 'tis, that the flag they served, waves not above 

their grave ! 
Alas ! there is no wind of heaven in which our flag 

may wave. 
Yet we may fancy, though its folds are buried with them 

low, 
They wear, its stars in heaven, for jewels on the brow. 

Oh, kiss it twice, and thrice, dear Love, before we lay 
it by ! 

Our battle-flag, whose star cross made a glory in the 
sky ! 

Oh, kiss it for the drops of blood, that sanctify its 
light ! 

Oh, kiss it for the dear boy's sake! Old flag! good- 
night, good-night ! 



^'AT THE GATE OF THE TEMPLE 
WHICH IS CALLED BEAUTIFUL." 

Daily, I, smitten, sick of soul, 

And wearied of life, and weak, 
Go forth with the rest, as they go. 

And seek for what they seek. 

At the Gate they call Beautiful. 

Daily, I turn faint away. 

While others smile and thank God ; 

And wherefore? Did I not kneel and pray, 
Bowing my head till it touched the sod, 
At the Gate they call Beautiful? 



''AT THE GATE OF THE TEMPLES 131 

The old way is worn and bitter and sad, — 

Daily, one goes forth to the new, 
With a great light in his face. Oh, me ! 

They that were many, now are few, 
At the Gate they call Beautiful. 

Wherefore do I go the old way, 

With young feet hastening beside mine old ? 
None heed me, none ! as I crouch alway. 

Miserable, hopeless, poor, and cold, 
At the Gate they call Beautiful. 

If only one would say to me, 

With that light on the lips, they wear when they speak, 
If only one would say to me, 

''Wait, poor heart, you shall find what you seeli, 
At the Gate they call Beautiful," 

I would look up and pray anew, 

As I prayed, when I first knew how to pray. 
And my false life would burn into true, 

And my feet never could falter away 
From the Gate they call Beautiful. 

When will He come, whom the nation waits. 

With a crown on His brow, less flow'r than thorn? 

Would He put forth His hand to the head grown old 
With long waiting, stricken with anguish and scorn, 
At the Gate they call Beautiful ? 

I know when He comes, that the earth shall smile, 
The weak, sin-bound, be loosed from their sin ; 

And I, may not I, too, crawl to His feet? 
Ah, what should the God-hand lead me in 
The Great Gate called Beautiful ! 



132 A LOST FRIEND, 



A LOST FRIEND. 

There came a new strain on life's echoing string, 

Thrilling and melting into cadence deep, — 
The golden glimmer of an angel's wing, 

That brightened all my life-path in its sweep. 
In the bright-tinted days, when Autumn smiles 

Her last sad smile before the Winter's tears, 
A new light glimmered for a little while, 

A rainbow spanned (I thought) the coming years. 

A new thought woke me in the dewy morn, 

A fond hand drew me gently to new ways, 
A new voice toned my dreams from dark to dawn, 

A new smile made a sunshine in dim days. 
x\ new, sweet counsel guided all my heart. 

Spoken from lips, fair with the dew of truth ; 
A new kiss chased the tear-drops that might start, 

A new bliss crept into my cheerless youth. 

Ah ! Hope and Love, what are ye, once so bright. 

Speaking the future one joy without end ? 
And yet, I will not seek to dim your light, 

'Twas well that ye departed with my friend ! 
Two dreary autumns now have shed their leaves. 

Since fluttered past that leaf of friendship's crown. 
And still my weary, saddened spirit grieves, 

And tear-drops with the autumn leaves fall down ; 
For now there is less light in morn and even, 

The earth is waxen dim without her smile. 



A LOST FRIEND. 



133 



Perhaps 'tis brighter far away in heaven, 

But ah ! 'tis darker, darker here the while. 
Oh, autumn leaves ! I know where ye are falling, 

Bright messengers borne on this windy wave. 
That ever in sad cadences is calling. 

Oh, autumn leaves ! your glory to her grave ! 
'Tis better so ; the angel ones are singing, — 

What matter if we erring mortals weep ? 
The echoes of their voices gladly ringing. 

Make music o'er the sad soul's heaving deep. 

% ^ -^ >f: * * ■ >l 

A winsome maiden was she, and her eyes 

Always reflected heaven in their glow ; 
I used to think earth half a Paradise 

The little while she dwelt with us below. 
How if we drop a gem into the sea, — 

The sea that always mirrors heav'n afar, — 
And sudden find the waves have set it free, 

And see it decking heaven's brow — a star ! 
What do we feel then, — sorrow or delight? 

What then have place, our smiles, or yet our tears ? 
Ah ! is the gem in sea, or heaven most bright. 

Whence to our eyes its fairer light appears? 



12^ 



134 



A SONG IN SPRING. 



A SONG IN SPRING. 

O Love, if you and I were flowers, 

Like these sweet blooms you've brought to me, 
And blossomed amid fragrant bowers, 

But fairer far than these we see ; 

O Love, if you and I, like these. 

Might from each other never part. 
But, lifted by the self-same breeze. 

Bloom face to face and heart to heart, 

How dear this life, — all joy, all love ! 

No single blast of woe or care ! 
We'd catch the sunshine from above, 

And breathe the fragrance of the air. 

And then so sweetly would we fade 

At autumn's melancholy strain, — 
Die, knowing where each one was laid, 

And knowing where we'd meet again. 

We'd sleep the long, cold winter through. 

With not one vision of distress ; 
At spring's first call, I'd rise with you, 

Awaked to joy and Love's caress. 



AUTUMN MUSIC— FRAGMENT. 135 



AUTUMN MUSIC. 

'' Mournfully sing, mournfully sing 

And die away, my heart," 
Earth's summer-birds have taken wing, 

And thou, too, must depart. 
Earth charmed awhile, earth charmed awhile \ 

Now all its joys are fled. 
The summer smile, the summer smile 

In autumn days is dead. 

Mournfully sing, mournfully sing. 

Poor heart, then die away ; 
Hope's glorious spring, hope's glorious spring 

Is cold in autumn's clay. 
When hope is gone, when hope is gone — 

Ah ! who would linger here? 
Who struggle on, who struggle on. 

Through winter's desert drear? 



FRAGMENT. 



Ah ! Love, remember me ! 

My heart shall follow thee. 

Thou canst not go so far 

But I will go, my star ! 

Like as dry land my heart shall tread the sea. 



136 LAMENT OF ANTONY. 



LAMENT OF ANTONY. 

Ah ! whither hast thou led me, Egypt ? 

Whither, my queen ? 

Whose brow shines clear as the moon, — 

The new moon low in the East. 

Whither, sweet voice, that so oft with magical tones 

Hast bidden me to her breast ? 

Whither, great eyes, for precious stones have no light 

Thy glances beneath ? 

O Fate, O Fate, if I read thine answer aright, 

Thou sayest, ''To Death !" 



THE END. 



